P s 

G35 




Knightly Heritage 



A DRAMA 



By GEROLT GIBSON 



A Knightly Heritage 



A DRAMA 



BY 



Gerolt Gibson 



ST. LOUIS, MO., U. S. A. 



AUTHOR'S EDITION 



Published also in London by 

PHILIP MIDDLETON JUSTICE 

55 and 56 Chancery Lane 



f~\fi 



f 



UtfMAKY ot &ON.SKESS 
\ wu Copies rteccivefl 

AUb JO W08 



CLA3 




&/ 



Copyright, 1908, 

by 
Gerolt Gibson 

All Rights Reserved : Including Rights of all Public Representation 
or Performance, and Translation 



SAM'L F. MYERSON PRINTING COMPANY 

Third and Chestnut Streets 

Saint Louis, Mo. 



TMP92-009148 



2>ramati6 perscmae* 

Walter Vernon. 

At 15 years of age. 

At 31 years of age. 
Hon. Richard Vernon. 
Mrs. Sarah Bostwick. 
Miss Nellie Bostwick. 
Mrs. Mollis Weymes. 
Miss MarjoriE Knollys. 
Peter Hutchins. 
Hector Cloman. 
James Bryce. 
Willie Stokes. 
Donald MacGeoghegan. 
Matthew Haley. 
Mrs. Burke. 
Mrs. Cassidy. 
PompEy (colored). 
James, The Butler. 
An Indian Guide. 

The ''Five Senses" Impersonated — "Sight, 
"Sound," "Smell," "Taste," "Touch." 
"Loyalty" Impersonated. 

Prologue — In Baltimore, 1890. 

First Act — In Green Moss Valley, 1906. 

Second Act — In Baltimore. 

Third Act — hi Baltimore. 

Fourth Act — In Green Moss Valley. 



A KNIGHTLY HERITAGE 
prologue 



The scene takes place in the house of Gov. Vernon 
in Baltimore in 1890. The walls are hung with pic- 
tures of colonial ancestors. An old sword is hang- 
ing on the wall. Mrs. Bostwick and Gov. Vernon are 
standing talking. Walter Vernon is sitting at a table 
reading a book. The appointments of the room are 
very elegant in the style of that day. Gov. Vernon is 
dressed as an old school southern gentleman, with 
broadcloth frock coat and fluffy shirt. He is very 
courtly. Mrs. Bostwick is stylishly dressed. As 
they talk Walter Vernon closes his book and listens 
to the conversation. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

And I want you to make us a speech. It is just a little 
dinner I am giving myself, but all the ladies are Co- 
lonial Dames, and the men are Sons of Colonial Wars, 
and, of course, we want the most distinguished mem- 
ber there. You will be sure to come, won't you, Gov- 
ernor, you and Margaret? 

Gov. Vernon. 
Why, yes ; I shall be happy to. 



Mrs. Bostwick. 

It is so inspiring" to compare genealogies, and recite 
the noble deeds of our ancestors. You know, I am 
descended from General Putnam. Governor, tell me 
all about your portraits. Who is this? 

Gov. Vernon. 

That is Captain Spencer. He belonged to the Ancient 
and Honorable Artillery. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 
How fine. And this one? 

Gov. Vernon. 
That is my grandfather, Col. Robert Vernon. He was 
an officer under Washington. After the Revolution- 
ary War he was enrolled as one of the Cincinnati. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

That is lovely. This is the one I like best. Sir Rich- 
ard Vernon. He was knighted by King Charles the 
First, wasn't he? 

Gov. Vernon. 

Yes. He was a cavalier and a tenant of the crown. 
In the war with Parliament, he mortgaged his estates, 
melted the family plate and raised a troop for the 
royal cause. At Edgehill he fought so well he was 
knighted on the field by the King himself as a knight 
banneret royal. At Marston Moor he went down in 
a flood of carnage overborne by greater numbers, but 
not conquered ; — a will of iron, concealed beneath the 
cloak of gentle manners; loyal to the core, and a 
fighter to the end. He was found on a pile of corpses, 
pierced through and through, his sword in his hand, 
dripping with the blood of the enemy. This is the 
sword here. It was brought over by his grandson, 
who emigrated to the Colony of Virginia in 1705. 



We prize it as an heirloom. It was worn by Col. 
Robert Vernon under Washington. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

Isn't it just too lovely to possess such things! 

(He has taken the old sword from 
off the wall and is showing it to Mrs. 
Bostzvick.) 

Gov. Vernon. 

It is said as long as we own this sword no member of 
our family can be a craven, or a coward. It is certain 
none ever has been. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

How beautiful ! Perfectly lovely ! It gives you such 
a fine social position ! 

Ponipey (colored). 

'Scuse me, Govehnuh, de Missus send wu'd she raidy 
if Mrs. Bostwick raidy to go out wif heh. 

(Governor Vernon goes over and 
hangs up the old sword.) 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 
Good-bye, Walter. 

Walter. 

(Shaking hands) — Good-bye, Mrs. Bostwick. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

Come over to see me and little Nellie. 

Walter. 

Thank you, I will. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

(To Governor Vernon) — I am sorry to discontinue 
our delightful conversation. But I shall see you at 
the dinner. 



Gov. Vernon. 

I shall be delighted. Pray permit me to accompany 
you out to the carriage. Pompey, is the carriage 
ready ? 

Pompey. 

Yes, suh. It waitin' outside. 

(Exeunt Mrs. Bostzvick and Gover- 
nor Vernon.) 

Walter. 

(Dramatically, much to Pompey 's consternation) — 
"At Edgehill he fought so well he was knighted on 
the field by the king himself, as a knight banneret roy- 
al ! At Marston Moor he went down in a flood of 
carnage, overborne by greater numbers, but not 
conquered; — a will of iron, concealed beneath the 
cloak of gentle manners; loyal to the core, and a 
fighter to the end ! He was found on a pile of corpses, 
pierced through and through, his sword in his hand, 
dripping with the blood of the enemy!" 

Pompey. 

(Trembling in terror) — Lawd a mehcy, Mahse 
Walter, is you talkin' to a ghos'? 

Walter. 
Of course not, stupid ! 

Pompey. 

Den who you a-talkin' to about dem cohpses and 
swohds drippin' wif blood! 

Walter. 

I wasn't talking to anybody. I was just telling about 
my ancestors. 



6 



Pompey. 

Oooh ! Your ants-ants-yes, suh. What did you call 
'em ? 

Walter. 
You goose ! 

Pompey. 

Ah know whut you a doiir. You jes' makin' a 
speech all to yoh se'f. Ah kin make speeches, too. 

Walter. 

You can? What about? 

Pompey. 

Las' night Ah wus at de prayeh meetin' an' de pahson 
say "Bru'er Pompey, we likes to heah you 'xtempor- 
ize de sagacity o' yoh umbrageous 'pinion about de 
liquoh question." An Ah say, "Brevren an' Sistern. 
De mos' cantankerous proposition conflagratn' de 
Amehican people today am de liquoh question. We 
mus' stan' up like a man in de midst ob a roahing 
fuhnace an' face de multitoodinous ramifications ob 
dis obnoxious contention wif de indivisible fax in de 
case." 

Walter. 

What on earth are you talking about? 
Pompey. . 

Ah's telling you all about ma speech at de meetin'. 
An' den Ah say, ''Will you be foun' wif de sheep o' 
wif de goats ?" An' Bru'er Poindexteh say he ruddeli 
be foun' wif de chickens if he gona git foun' at all. 
An' Ah says to him : "Bru'er Poindexteh, Ah is com- 
pletely transmogrified at yoh amalgamated ignornce." 

Walter. 
What! 



Pompey. 

Ah said, "Ah is completely transmogrified at yoh amal- 
gamated ignornce." 

Walter. 

You mean mortified — mortified at his amazing ignor- 
ance. 

Pompey. 



Walter. 

Pompey. 

Walter. 



Whut's dat? 

Mortified. 

Muggified. 

Mortified. 

Pompey. 

No, suh ! It wus a heap wuhse 'n dat ! Transmogri- 
fied! An' so dey all say dey gona vote foh me. 

Walter. 

Well, which side are you on, wet or dry? 

Pompey. 

Ah's on de side dey all gona vote foh. 

Walter. 
Which side is that ? 

Pompey. 

Dat ain't come up yit. Ah's gona wait an' see. Ah's a 
colohed gentleman o' cibility. 

{Enter Governor Vernon. Exit 

Pompey.) 

Walter. 
(Very seriously) — Father, can I be a soldier? 

Gov. Vernon. 
A soldier! 

Walter. 
(Dramatically) — Yes. I want to fight and be a gentle- 



3 



man like our ancestors, to rally to the beat of the 
drum, led on by the flag of our country to honor and 
to victory, or to a glorious death ! 

Gov. Vernon. 

The fighter of today displays his hardihood in the 
constructive arts of peace, rather than in the devas- 
tation of war. You will have plenty of chance to show 
your pluck. 

Walter. 

But I want to win glory and distinction ! 

Gov. Vernon. 

That can be done in many ways. It is a practical 
world. We must strive for individual prosperity. 



You mean to get rich ? 



Walter. 
Gov. Vernon. 



Yes, honorably so. 

Walter. 

(Sticking his nose up in the air with a moue) — I don't 
want to just make money. You have always said it 
is vulgar to judge a man by how rich he is. 

Gov. Vernon. 

That is true as a standard ; but it is the rich churl 
that is obnoxious, not the gentleman. And, besides, 
we are driven to it, Walter. During all my life my 
first thought has been my country ! My country ! The 
public welfare ! But what do we see — dishonest army 
contractors, who never smelt gun-powder, flaunting 
their ill-gotten millions in the face of the battered 
patriot ! Or giants in the commercial world, whose 
only standard has been mere selfishness, cold and piti- 
less, the pride of the nation, and rulers of the age ! 
And shall a family like ours, that has rubbed shoulders 



9 



with the chivalry of the world go trailing in the dust 
behind these money lords? No. We must meet the 
times, the mercenary age, and look to the pocketbook. 
(Peter Hutchins, about thirty years 
old and James Bryce, about sixty- 
three years old, are ushered in by 
Pompey.) 

James Bryce. 
Howdy, Governor, howdy. (Shaking hands.) 

Gov Vernon. 
Good morning, Mr. Bryce, glad to see you. 

Peter Hutchins. 
How do you do, Governor. (Shaking hands.) 

James Bryce. 
Howdy, Walter, how's the pony? 

Walter. 
Fine. I raced with Charley Bates, and beat him badly. 

Gov. Vernon. 
Walter, this is Mr. Hutchins. 

Peter. 
How do you do? 

Walter. 

(Shaking hands) — I'm glad to meet you, sir. 

James Bryce. 
Well, so we are all going to get rich, eh, Governor ? 

Gov. Vernon. 

I hope we are making a wise investment, Mr. Bryce, I 
hope so. 



10 



James Bryce. 

Mine is but a little chunk beside yours, but I am go- 
ing in on your judgment, Governor. 

Peter. 

Gentlemen, there is no better investment than this 
wonderful timber land in Green Moss Valley. The 
United States is a big country, streams of immigration 
pouring in from all over the world, the American peo- 
ple are prolific, population on the increase, towns 
growing, industries on the boom and lumber used 
everywhere — the very basis of civilization itself ! Here, 
Governor, I am offering you a principality of one 
hundred thousand acres for one hundred and twenty- 
five thousand dollars, good as gold in the Bank of 
England, doubling in value every couple of years, 
can't go down, must rise, best investment in the world ! 

Gov. Vernon. 

It is a beautiful country, as peaceful as Arcadia. I 
was there last summer, myself. The air is as ex- 
hilarating as champagne. 

James Bryce. 

Is that where you shot the bear? 

Gov. Vernon. 

Yes. There are all kinds of game, in the very heart 
of nature, untouched by the hand of man, the primeval 
forest twittering with song birds and interspersed 
with glittering lakes. 

Peter. 

A small river flows through it, so you can float logs 
down stream. 

James Bryce. 
A wonderful country! 



11 



Gov. Vernon. 

An investment rich in profits and a fairy land to go 
to. Have you brought the title deeds and notes? 

Peter. 

Yes, sir; in my pocket. Here they are. The deed 
is signed and sealed by Henry Bixby, the present own- 
er. He bought from Mary Jukes, the widow of Mark 
Jukes. You know the title is all right. 

Gov. Vernon. 

I am to give you my check for fifty thousand dollars 
cash and execute three notes of twenty-five thousand 
dollars each, payable in five, ten and fifteen years, 
with interest at 7 per cent. 

Peter. 

Yes, sir; that's right, sir. I have everything here 
ready for delivery. 

James Brycc. 

I am only investing two thousand dollars, but it is 
next to yours, so if yours is good, mine is too. I 
am going in on your judgment, Governor. 

Gov. Vernon. 
Gentlemen, step into the library and we will close the 
transaction. It is a large investment, but it looks as 
sound as bed rock to me. 

Peter. 

No doubt of it; best in the world. 

(Exeunt all except Walter. Walter 
goes over and takes down the old 
sword. Struts back with rather pom- 
pous dignity to the middle of the 
stage, holding the sword in his hand.) 



12 



Walter 

(Exaltedly) — This old sword of my ancestors is the 
emblem of honor, of courage, of manhood ! I love it ! 
I swear to be loyal to every trust, true in duty and al- 
ways a gentleman ! Then I shall be worthy of my 
nation and of my family! An American Gentleman! 
(Curtain.) 



13 



Jfiret Hct. 

Scene ©ne— In Green Moss Valley, October, 1906. 

The object of this scene is to give a beautiful pictorial 
effect, carrying the audience into a realm of wild na- 
ture and her charms, utilizing the best abilities of the 
scenic painter. 

Mountain peaks rise in the distance, veiled in blue 
smoke. The waters of a lake shimmer in the after- 
noon sun, flanked by vast stretches of forest trees. 
Walter Vernon's cabin stands on an eminence in the 
middle distance. In the foreground on the right is 
a large rock, with a running spring, surrounded by 
large trees. 

(Enter Peter Hutchins and Indian 

guide, having just dismounted from 

their horses.) 

(Peter comes in limping so stiffly he 

can hardly walk.) 

Peter. 

Oh ! I'm so stiff. I can scarcely walk. My legs feel 
like wood. Darn horse back riding, anyway! 

(Feels the seat of his trousers, 

whistles whew!) 

I never was spanked so hard before ! 

(Limps across the stage, shakes his 
coat and a lot of dust flies off.) 

Confound the country! 

Indian. 

(Pointing to the spring) — Good water, heap cold. 

(Indian lies down on his stomach and 
drinks out of a little pool. Peter 

15 



drops his quirt and drinks out of his 
hand, catching the water as it falls.) 

Ah! delicipus! (Drinks again.) That is good! The 

only good thing here, and it is running away as fast 

as it can. 

( Stoops to pick up riding whip. ) O murder ! I can't 

do that! 

(Feels the seat of his trousers.) Hey, you, Hawk- 

that-flies-in-the-face-of-the-sun, swoop down and 

gather up my quirt. 

Indian. 

(Majestically) — Pale face pick up own quirt! 

Peter. 

! why did I ever come out here ! O ! O ! 

(Gets down on one knee carefully 
and recovers his quirt.) 

O ! how will I ever get up again ! Hawk-Hawk — 

come over here and give me a lift. 

Indian. 
Pale-face big pappoose ! 

Peter 

(Struggling up) — Well, let's go. I don't know how 

1 will ever get on my horse. Where is Vernon's 
cabin — how far? Vernon's cabin — whereabouts? 

(Indian points to cabin in middle 
distance.) 

Peter. 



How far? 



Indian. 



Half hour ride; good trail; good horse. 

Peter. 

Confound the horse, and the trail, and the dust and 
everything ! All the green valleys and winding rivers, 



16 



mountain peaks and open plains are but desolation to 
me. Poetry ! Bosh ! Give me a cemented street, 
flanked with buildings and alive with the hum of 
business. That is life and desire. This is weariness. 
I hate the country. 

(Exeunt Peter and Indian.) 

Scene XTwo. 

Interior of Walter's cabin in Green Moss Valley. The 
walls are hung with trophies of the chase — elk, bear, 
moose, mountain lion heads and skins, eagles, hawks, 
etc. 

On the right is a table covered with implements for 
assaying ore, retorts, glass jars, scales, etc. An as- 
say furnace is in the background. 

Walter Vernon is seated at the table at work with a 
blow pipe testing minerals. In the prologue Walter 
was 15 years old; now he is 31. 

(Enter Clyde Murdoch.) 
Murdock is a rough prospector, 
shaggy beard, slouch hat, flannel- 
shirt, breeches in his boots, belt and 
revolver strapped around his zuaist. 
He is carrying a bag of samples. 
Murdock. 
Hullo, Walter! Spoutin' fire like a devil? 

Walter. 

Hello, Murdock! Back again? 

Murdock. 

You bet I be. Run short o' grub. Ben over on Clear- 
water Crick. You ben here all the time? 

Walter. 

Yes. I haven't quite finished assaying those last 
samples you brought in. 



17 



Mur dock. 
How they gona turn out? 

Walter. 
Haven't struck any pay dirt yet, rich enough to work. 

Murdoch. 

I ain't never saw no better prospect. Don't it beat 
hell how things don't pan out? But, say, pard, you 
git ready fur a surprise party, fur you got one a' 
comin', though taint on your land. Look a-hyar what 
I got! You jus' wait a minute. 

(Murdock carries a bag over to the 
table and starts to untie it.) 

Walter. 

What's this, another lead pipe cinch? 

Murdock. 

Don't you git gay, young feller — cause this aint no 
bob tail flush! This is es purty a jack-pot es you 
ever seen. Wait till I open it, then you'll see sumpin 
fittin to look at. 

(Unties bag and dumps contents on 

table.) 

Walter. 
Gold ! Placer sand ! Where did you get it ? 

Murdock. 
I'd like to see the son-of-a-gun that can beat that ! 

(Slaps Walter jocosely on the shoul- 
der. ) 

Walter. 
Placer gold ! Where did you get it ? 
Murdock. 

(Striking an attitude) — You bet! Whar did I git 
it ? Whar did I git it ? 

18 



Walter. 

It's in a stream somewhere. 

Murdoch. 

Clearwater Crick. In the bottom of the stream — on 
that Bryce claim, not on yourn. But it's just half a 
mile above yourn. 

Walter. 

Was it all in one spot? 

Murdoch. 

No. Panned it in a dozen different places. I bet a 
barrel of bacon to a box o' matches you got the same 
lower down stream whar Clearwater Crick runs 
through your land. That's what I'm a gona strike 
fur next. Ef the stuff's thar I'll find it. 

Walter. 

You are allright, Murdock. You're square, too, old 
man. 

Murdock. 

So be you. Thar aint a crooked hair on your head; 
and I says it, too, which the same I knows what I'm 
talkin' about. I got friends down at the camp. Do 
you know Patterson that runs the game? 

Walter. 
I haven't the pleasure. 

Murdoch. 

Say — a feller's gotta blow off steam once in a while, 
sure! I'll be back yere by mornin' and strike off on 
the trail agin tomorrer. Say — I gotta ride over to 
Golden Hope Minin' Camp now. Say — you know 
Kitty Maloney? She's stuck on me, Kit is. So long, 
pard. Say — don't shoot ef I come in all in a bunch. 
So long. 



19 



{Murdoch starts to go. Peter and the 
Indian guide enter. Mnrdock scowls 
at Peter and walks out, glaring at 
him over his shoulder.) 

Peter. 
For heaven's sake, who is that barbarian? 

Walter. 
Clyde Murdock. 

Peter. 
He's a wild animal. 

Walter. 

He is my prospector, and a good one, too. 
Peter. 

Well, I am going back home tonight. 

{Drops into a chair and suddenly 
rises with a look of pain on his face, 
feeling the seat of his trousers.) 

Walter. 

Have you been all over the land? 

Peter. 

Yes, or pretty near it — enough, anyway, enough. 

Walter. 

And what do you think of it? 

Peter. 

A wild and forbidding country. Give me Baltimore, 
give me Baltimore — or New York. 

Walter. 
But from a business standpoint? 

Peter. 
Disappointing, disappointing, very disappointing. 



20 



Walter. 

(Indignantly) — You mean the value isn't there? A 
solid growth of forest trees from two to five feet in 
diameter — how disappointing ? 

Peter. 

Too far to market, too far from the railroads, abso- 
lutely in the wilds of nature. A railroad will have to 
be built before you can sell any of this land, or handle 
the timber. 

Walter. 

Let us understand each other. When my father 
bought, sixteen years ago, he executed three notes 
of twenty-five thousand dollars each. Two of these 
notes are not yet paid, and you have bought them 
from the Henry Bixby estate. They are secured by 
mortgage on all this one hundred thousand acres of 
land. Do you mean that the mortgage is not good, 
that the security is not good? 

Peter. 

Exactly, exactly. A very poor debt. 

Walter. 

(Very angrily) — That's a lie, and you know it! This 
land is now worth fifteen dollars an acre, or a million 
and a half of value to secure fifty thousand dollars. 
It is ridiculous — a bad debt! 

Peter. 

But you can't sell it, you can't sell it, my boy; a thing 
is worth what you can sell it for. 

Walter. 

And why can't I sell it? Because you have attacked 
my title by fraud. 



21 



Peter. 
I haven't attacked your title. It is William Jukes. 

Walter. 
And who is William Jukes but your paid agent? 

Peter. 
He is the son of Mark Jukes. 

Walter. 

By nature, but not by law. My father bought from 
Henry Bixby. Henry Bixby bought from Mary 
Jukes, the widow of Mark Jukes. 

Peter. 

She was not his widow, because Mark Jukes was 
previously married. His marriage to her was biga- 
mous. Never being legally his wife, she inherited noth- 
ing, and could convey nothing. 

Walter. 

That is what you have suborned this vile cheat and 
others to swear to; but it is a lie. His mother may 
have lived with Mark Jukes in the early days in Cali- 
fornia, but was not his wife. The affidavits that they 
were married are perjured testimony, manufactured by 
your fertile brain and obtained by bribery. Because 
this young man has been a minor until recently, he is 
not barred by limitation from bringing suit. 

Peter. 

You wrong me, you wrong me. It is a serious situ- 
ation. I am not responsible if men will have two 
wives. 

Walter. 

Your scheme is to cloud my title until the law suit is 
tried next winter, so I can't sell or borrow any money. 

22 



In the meanwhile, if I don't raise fifty thousand dollars 
to pay the two notes on November 17th you will sell 
me out under the mortgage. How can I raise that 
much money with my title disputed, and these lands 
my only asset? The Bixby estate is insolvent and 
his warranty no good, so I would never get any of 
the money back. 

Peter. 

That's not my fault. If people wade in deeper than 
they can swim, egad, they will have to drown. 

Walter. 

This imposter, William Jukes, has no more right to 
my land than you have to the moon. You are a 
couple of black-hearted villians. 

Peter. 
What foolish talk! what foolish talk! It is not busi- 
ness, not business. 

Walter. 

(Indignantly pointing his finger at him) — And as for 
value, YOU — YOU sold these lands to my father six- 
teen years ago. There was no question of markets 
then, no question of railroads. It was all a glittering 
tale of profits, a shower of gold, a river of prosperity 
— and now you stultify your own representations, 
which, in fact, were true, and have come true, every 
word of them — and the lands are worth all that you 
ever claimed, and more ! 

Peter. 

I was young then — poor judgment. Young men are 
led astray — too optimistic, don't consider details. Be- 
sides, I was agent then, it was my duty to sell — to 
sell the land. Of course, I had to talk. 

Walter. 
And besides, see here — 

{Walter goes over to the table and 



23 



gets some of the placer sands left by 

Murdock.) 
This is gold, gold from the bed of Clearwater Creek, 
on the Bryce claim, half a mile above my land. Mur- 
dock just brought it in. The chances are that the 
same deposit extends onto my land. 

Peter. 

(Eagerly) — Gold! By heaven, gold! 

Walter. 

A few acres along this creek may be worth millions ! 
millions ! First my father, until he died, and then my- 
self, have nursed along this investment for years; 
every cent we could scrape together has gone into it. 
Altogether, including interest, we have paid one 
hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars so far, and 
I want an extension of a few months' time on the two 
remaining notes until this fake law suit is settled. 

Peter. 

Moonshine ! Dreams ! Foolishness ! I can't do it, 
my boy, can't do it. Business is business. I need 
the money, and you must pay. The notes fall due on 
November 17th, and you must pay. 

Walter. 

(With determination) — Then I will pay. I will go 
to Baltimore and raise the money some way and pay 
you. I'll organize a corporation and we'll see who 
wins in the end. I have six weeks' time. A lot can 
be done in six weeks. 

Peter. 

(Crestfallen) — Very well, very well, very well, pay up, 
that's all. That is (ahem) if you can sell or borrow 
on a title that is in dispute. 

Walter. 

(Angrily) — That's where the fraud comes in! 



24 



Peter. 

Foolish talk — it's just business, just business. Well, no 
hard feelings, my boy — good-bye — I am off for home 
again tonight. (Feeling the seat of his trousers). O, 
that ride back to the railroad! (Whew !) 

(Walks out stiff and limping, accom- 
panied by the Indian.) 

Walter. 

(Reflectively) — This is Wednesday — Wednesday — I'll 
go to Baltimore by the middle of next week, then 
we'll see, Mr. Peter Hutchins, who'll come out ahead ! 
In the meantime, Murdock will have a chance to ex- 
plore some more on Clearwater Creek. If we can 
only find gold on my land it will help immensely ! 
Home ! Home ! Dear old home ! And there I will 
see Nellie! Little Nellie Bostwick! It is four years 
now since we last met. How beautiful she was, how 
fresh and sweet at seventeen. And now she is 21 
years old — from a girl to a budding woman ! 

(Unlocks his trunk and takes out a 
photograph of Nellie, gazes at it, and 
then puts it on the dresser.) 
What a thrill comes unbidden at the thought of seeing 
her again. I could not call her my sweetheart — no, 
nothing like so near as that — just a vague, indefinite 
hope, too uncertain to receive a name ; like the instinct 
of birds, calling — calling — for a mate. Perhaps it 
is more the gladness of returning home than any 
deeper claim. 

(The sound is heard of a galloping 
horse approaching; horse stops.) 
I wonder who that can be. By Jove ! I know. 

(Enter Mollie Weymes, a bunch of 
flowers pinned on her breast.) 



Walter ! 



Mollie. 



25 



Walter. 

(Shaking her cordially by both hands) — I knew it 
Was you. 

Mo Hie. 

Why, did you hear my pony? 
Walter. 

And by another means, too; 

You charge the very ether in advance ! 

Mollie. 

! I am so happy ! 

Dear Pontiac was madly wild to go, 

And so I gave the little brute loose rein, — 

We bounced like coils of springs, so light and easy, 

Skimming along, as free as a bird on wings ! 

O! I could almost fly myself today; 

It's glorious just to be alive ! 

Walter. 

Which way did you come? 

Mollie. 

Over the mountain trail, then on the path 

That curves around the northern shore of the lake; 

Across the poppy field, then by the road 

That winds meandering through the moss grown 

woods ; 
And all of nature shouting with peals of joy 
As through a thousand trumpets ! 

Walter. 

The mountain peak commands a panorama 
Unexcelled in all the world ! 

Mollie. 

1 saw an eagle poised in lofty flight, 
And almost sailed away into the sky 
Myself. 

26 



Walter. 

Would you do that and leave me all alone, 
Deserted by my chum, the happy valley 
Happy no more, with my companion gone ? 

Mollie. 

No, not for all the wide and wealthy world ! 

I was but jesting- of my bouyant mood. 

Come smell my posies, picked in the flowering meadow. 

The droning bees were gloating on their petals, 

And sipping out their honeyed sweets. Is this 

A lazy day, all drowsy with the balm, 

Or thrilling with the stir of active life? 

Walter. 

I thought you knew : you said that all was glowing. 

Mollie. 

It is, but in such different ways. 

I chased a fox, the slyest little vixen, 

Just keeping out of reach, and knowing well 

I wouldn't harm a hair upon her tail ; 

Then came to the shelving brink of the shining lake; 

Dismounted there, and let the pony graze ; 

And while the waves were lapping on the beach, 

I lolled against the leaning trunk of a tree, 

And whether it was the rhythm of the ripples, 

Murmuring with a soft and gentle cadence, 

I know not; but tears, unsought, came gushing forth, 

A briny river down my sunburned cheek; — 

A sweet, sad glow of strangest melancholy 

Welling up in pathos from my heart ; 

Nor could I tell whether my fount of joy 

Was simply brimming over to repletion, 

Or if there was something missing after all, 

Whose cruel absence made me really sad. 

So Pontiac and I came swiftly here, 

Coursing through the dreamy woodland shade, 

27 



That echoed with the cheerful notes of birds : 
And now I wonder at the thought of tears, 
For truly the sea of sunshine, bathing the world, 
Is not more fraught with light than my own heart 
Is radiant with the joy of living! 

Walter. 

Mollie, tell me this — 

Why did you ever come out here to live? 

It is a query that often puzzles me. 

(Mollie drops in a seat as if shocked. 

Walter sits down beside her.) 

Mollie. 

Smell my flowers. Here, I'll give you one. 
(She gives him a flower.) 
No, — put it in your buttonhole. 

Let me do it. (Puts it on him.) Now you are 

decorated. 
Walter. 

By an exquisite queen ! 

Mollie. 

Why don't you go out to shoot? 
A mighty Nimrod living by his gun ! 

Walter. 

Look around, 

And you will see the trophies of the chase. 

But why did you come to the wilds so far, 

To live alone in your cute bungalow, 

Ten miles from here, instead of in some city? 

Mollie. 
City ! City ! I detest cities ! 

Walter. 
But in society, among your fellow creatures. 

28 



Mollie. 

Society ! I hate it, with its rules ! 
Give me the wild, untrammeled, open life, 
As free as air and in the heart of nature, 
Whose beauty charms, and crushing might commands 
Who plants the dew drop in the blossom's bowl, 
And drives the lightning home with deadly stroke; 
Who spreads sweet perfumes in the country air, 
And rends the earth with awful earthquake shock ; 
A force we ought to love and yet obey. 

Walter. 

But tell me, now ; are we not chums and friends ; 
The very best of friends, you and I ? 
Removed far from the din of bustling towns, 
In solitude, unspoiled by man, and where 
The voice of the wilderness alone is heard, 
One real good comrade fills the world with light ! 
Have we not grown most near to one another? 
And yet there's such a host of things unsaid; 
So tell me now, dear Mollie, heart to heart — 
Why did you come out here so far away 
From your true place, as best befits your culture? 

Mollie. 
The story of my life? 

Walter. 
Yes. 

Mollie. 

You ought to be testing minerals. (Rising). 
Come, let me see you work the flaming blow-pipe ; 
And I'll sit by just like your little sister. 

Walter. 

(Pulling her back by the hand to her seat again.) 
It is too late for that. My work is done. 

Mollie. 
The story of my life? 

29 



Walter. 
Yes. 

Mollie. 

You know that I am married. 

Walter. 

Yes, I know that. 

Mollie. 
Isn't that enough? 

Walter. 

No, tell me all, so I may understand. 

Mollie. 

'Most every night a wild cat prowls about, 
In high tree tops, around my bungalow, 
And whimpers in the darkness like a child, — 
Whether in subtle sympathy for me, 
Or stirred by hunger's rage, I can not tell ; 
But deep down in my heart, the call o' the wild 
Repeats its echo. The animals know me well. 
Even whining puppy dogs that lick your face, 
Or cunning little whelps of mountain lions, 
Arouse within deep chords of tenderness; 
So dear to me is helpless babyhood ! 

Walter. 

That isn't what I asked about at all; 
That isn't the story of your life! 

Mollie. 

Well, sir,— if needs be, must. 

You know that I was born in Philadelphia? 

Walter. 
Yes. 

Mollie. 
My father was a wealthy banker. 
When I got through the course at Vassar College, 

30 



I came back home, a young and blooming Miss, 
All bubbling over with the force of life, 
And loving no one but my dear old dad, 
My over-idolized and only parent. 

Walter. 

And he loved you as much as you loved him? 

Mollie. 

Not less, but maybe more. My dear old dad ! 
Well, in the strange misguidance of his age, 
What must he do, to better my estate, 
But get me tightly anchored, as he thought, 
Within the bounds of matrimony's port, 
Secure for life in care of an honest man ! 
And I, misled by youthful piety, 
Fell victim to the terrible mistake 
Of misplaced duty and obedience ! 

Walter. 

That must have been long, long ago ! 

Mollie. 

Smarty ! You are as wilful as I am ! 

But what misfortune stamps our semi-virtues ! 

You know me, Walter, and what I am like. 

Think, then, a moment of Sylvester Weymes, — 

A thorough bourgeois tradesman, rich and clean, 

A man of honor, yet a live machine, 

Adjusted as with springs, and cogs and wheels; 

Each day its predecessor's counterpart, 

As much alike as buttons on a vest; — 

Arising on the very stroke of time, 

Then every minute foreordained for use, 

The very second set for each event, 

All life, with pitiless exactitude, 

Reduced to rules, as cold and hard as steel, — 

A mere routine established by tradition ! 



31 



Walter. 

You said he came from Philadelphia? 

Mollie. 

Be careful what you say, for so do I ! 
No one can say that I am like a Quaker! 

Walter. 

He ought to have employed a house-keeper, 
Instead of marrying you. 

Mollie. 

Me, the happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care, 
fire-brand of a girl; ablaze with more impulses 
In a minute's time, than he in his whole life ; 
Full steam ahead in heedless acts and deeds, 
A very mad-cap, if there ever was one ! 

Walter. 

You must have fretted like a captured eagle 
Confined within a hen coop's narrow walls ! 

Mollie. 

Indeed, if I raised my wings they hit the bars ! 
Such small, hair-splitting pettiness of mind, 
He always right, purred up with gross conceit, 
And I, an erring child, but to be led, 
Restricted and suppressed ! Such petty ways 
Must goad to desperation in the end ! 

Walter. 
No wonder you could not endure the strain ; 
A lioness is not a goat ! 

Mollie. 
And then he grew to fat and ponderous size, 
His labored breath performed with puff and wheeze, 
The cold and clammy damp of perspiration, 
Like beads upon his flabby hands, and forehead ; 
Popped eyes, and bloated cheeks, — oh ! what a man ! 
Yet claiming me by right of legal bonds! 

32 



Bah ! The loathsome thought gives me a turn, 
As if a toad were crawling down my neck ! 
It takes much more than law to make a wife! 
Ugh ! Such was my lord, Sylvester Weymes : 
And when I left him, bound in terms of law, 
In soul, as far apart as distant poles, 
Your pretty women of the social whirl, 
With powdered cheeks and dainty, mincing ways, 
Your callow youths and stilted married men, 
Proclaimed me abroad a wild, recalcitrant wife, 
Deserting woman, lawless runaway, 
To leave this model man of civic worth ; 
For that he always was, I must admit, 
In his bull-headed, overbearing way ! 

Walter, 

And so you broke your galling chains, — 
Escaped from gloomy prison altogether ? 

Mo Hie. 

What could I do? Remain a married wanton, 
Vile abhorrence roaring from every vein; 
Or seek my freedom? 

Walter. 
O, what a pity ! 

Mollie. 

And so, I have tossed up society, 
And here I am, back near sweet nature's heart, 
The past wiped out, and I, again care-free, 
Released from dire perdition in my escape! 
That's why I'm here, and why I'm going to stay,- 
The clear horizon swept of every cloud ; 
And I, infused with cheerful buoyancy, 
Just like a maid back in her teens again. 

Walter. 

Poor girl ! Oh, what a shame ! 

Your finest feelings crushed beneath the weight 

Of such a heavy blow ! 



33 



Mollie. 

The wound is healed by nature's kindly salve. 
Oft, when I wander in the silent fields 
At dead of night, great troops of stars blaze forth, 
The heavens spangled wher-e'r the eye can reach, — 
Bright diamond solitaires against the sheen 
Of gleaming myriads, that melt into the glow 
Of filmy star-dust ! Then, I behold the cosmos ; 
Commune in soul with the Infinite, over-awed ! 
A hundred million tiny lights above, 
And yet a single one ten million fold 
The magnitude of our enormous earth ! 
And they revolve in their celestial paths, 
As aeons roll, in endless course of time, 
Through hundreds, of thousands, of millions, of 

billions of centuries ! 
O ! God ! The spirit of the boundless deep 
Flows like a flood through my revering heart ; 
But civic institutions, made by man, 
Are like the impress of a far-off dream, 
Dimly recalled in mists of long ago ! 

Walter. 

Well, then your weeping by the lake was not 
Upon account of misery with your husband ? 

Mollie. 

What, that! O, never! never! no, indeed! 

He often made me fume with boiling rage, 

Or curl my lip in bitter scorn, and sulk 

Like a balky mule ! But tears ? For him ? O, no ! 

It must have been a fairy elf, I think ; 

Some mischief-breeding, teasing, little sprite, 

Commingling gladness with the sweetest sadness, — 

Smiles mixed with tears ! But that's all over now. 

Heighho ! I am so happy ! happy ! happy ! 

34 



(She walks around the room, swing- 
ing her arms in a careless way. She 
stops in front of a deer head on the 
wall) 

Walter ! 

See here the head of the buck we hunted together. 

Do you remember the day, and how we rode 

For miles and miles? 

Walter. 
Yes ; that's the very reason I had it stuffed. 

Mollie. 

The chase I worship, bounding over the earth, 
As free as a hawk, exultant in pursuit; 
But O ! my heart gives way at killing time, 
To see a harmless creature stricken down, 
Its pleading eyes congealed in brutal death ! 

Walter. 

But then your appetite returns in force 

When the juicy meat is served upon the trencher. 

Mollie. 

Well, that's another thing, for if not fed, 

Gaunt hunger gnaws with sharpened, wolfish fangs ! 

It's like the glamour of a dreamy song, 

Revived from some quaint, old, forgotten book, 

Out here, in this, the happiest, happiest, happiest 

Valley in all the world ! 

(She arrives at his dresser and sees 

Nellie's photograph.) 
Walter ! What's this ! A woman ! Who is it ? 
Who is it? 

Walter. 

O, that ? Why,— ugh— that— is— Nellie,— Miss 
Bostwick. 



35 



Mollie. 

Nellie! Who is Nellie? 

Walter. 

An old-time neighbor of ours in Baltimore. 
Our families lived next door. I remember well 
When she was born. 

Mollie. 

And do you write to one another? 

Walter. 

O, no. I haven't seen or heard of her 
For four long years. 

Mollie. 
How old is she? 

Walter. 

Some ten years younger than myself; 
So she and Marjorie must be of equal age. 
As girls they always played together. 

Mollie. 
Marjorie! Who is Marjorie? 

Walter. 

Another neighbor that lived near us~Marjorie Knollys. 

Mollie. 
And what is she like? 

Walter. 

The truest friend a man could ever have. 

She always sees the higher side of things — 

A trifle sober, perhaps, but sound in judgment; 

While Nellie is gay, and fond of the glittering world, 

And always talking or laughing, or telling a joke; 

But Marjorie is quite sedate. 



Mo Hie. 
And of the two which one do you prefer? 
Walter. 

There is a force that draws — called magnetism ; 
Nellie is well equipped with that. And now 
She has attained the pride of womanhood, 
Yet is a bud, all fresh with glowing youth! 

Mollie. 

(Pleadingly) — But you don't love her, Walter; 
Oh ! tell me that you do not love her ! 

Walter. 

The thought of meeting her again, stirs up 
A nest of hopes I scarcely knew were there ! 
Nellie, the girl I saw grow up, a woman ! 

Mollie. 

A dream, you mean, a mere ideal, — no more, — 
It's all in you, not her, — misleading hopes ! 
A gilded picture in your mind, portrayed 
With bright imagination's vivid hues, — 
All this and that, — a hundred fancied things 
No woman ever is ! O, how I hate her ! 
Where did you get her photograph? 

Walter. 
Out of my trunk. 

As I must go to Baltimore next week, 
I thought I would — 

Mollie. 

To BALTIMORE! To BALTIMORE! You did 
Not say to BALTIMORE ! You are not going 
To leave, — not going away? 

Walter. 
I must; for business reasons I must go. 

37 



Mollie. 

Oh ! now a green and venomous slug eats at 
My heart, with icy, death-like sickness ; 
And if I do not suffocate with the pangs 
That torture and oppress l*y inner soul, 
I could do murder, — choke and scratch to death, 
The little minx ! Oh, how I loathe and hate her ! 
To Baltimore ! You say you're going away ; 
And I thought that all would last forevermore 
Without a change ! How long will you be gone ? 

Walter. 

I cannot say ; I might not come back again. 
The crisis is a serious one, and all 
My fortune is at stake, so I must go 
And try to organize a corporation, 
Or lose all that I own in the world. 

Mollie. 
Going away ! 

Walter. 

And so the thought of seeing Nellie again 
Awakens dormant memories to life — 

Mollie. 

To meet the dole of disappointing fate ! — 

An idle figment of a bachelor's dream ! 

O, Walter, why does this come up just now 

To spoil our happiness? How you have grown 

Into my life, I did not realize ! 

But now this sudden notice of departure, 

And then this girl — how in an instant's time 

They change the world's aspect ! This photograph 

Reflects some false, distorted spell on you ; 

I'd like to tear it into bits ! 

( She starts to tear the photograph.) 

38 



Walter. 

(Hastily)— But stop! You shan't do that ! Give it to 

me! 
(He tries to get it. Mollie holds it 
behind her back.) 

Mollie. 

Then take it, if you want it so much ! 

(She shifts it from one hand to the 
other as he reaches for it. She drops 
it on the floor. He picks it up and 
puts it back on his dresser. The rays 
of the setting sun are shining through 
the door from the left.) 

Mollie. 

I hope you will not go, but if you do, 
When will it be? 

Walter. 
In just about one week. 

Mollie. 

And in the span of that short little week, 
Do you intend to show a miser's greed 
And hoard your presence up — a boon too rich 
To share with me? It is your turn to call. 
I must be going now. It's getting late. 
I have ten miles to ride and all alone. 
The sun is sinking and will soon be down. 
And yet there is a fine bright moon tonight. 
Don't you enjoy a horseback ride at night, 
Beneath the silver rays of the shining moon? 

Walter. 

Sometimes. 

Mollie. 

And would you now, tonight, with me, — 

Down the weeping glade, 

Where rabbits scatter as we come, 

39 



And mournful whip-poor-wills 

Cry out their plaintive, homesick wail; 

Over the rustic bridge, 

That neatly spans the rippling brook, 

Where horses' hoofs resound, 

And clatter across in gleeful tune : 

On, past the placid lake, 

That shines so bright in shades of night, 

Where weirdly calling loons 

Breathe wild enchantment on the air; 

Then through the bosky dell, 

All sheltered in on every side, 

Its soft, mild lights agleam 

Like blushes on a virgin's breast: 

At last arriving home, — 

My own dear little bungalow, 

So cosy and so sweet, 

Its welcoming doors thrown open wide 

To greet the honored guest 

Who graces its enfolding walls ; 

Would you? 

Walter. 

(Shaking his head) — I couldn't, — I couldn't. 

(Mollie gets her hat, gloves and quirt 
off the bed; glances through the door 
at the setting sun, the glow of which 
is streaming in.) 

Mollie. 

The sun is richest, nearest to the earth. 

Its golden fire, emblazoned on the sky, 

In flaming streams pours from the sinking orb ! 

Beneath its royal light at eventide, 

In silent calm, when all the world is still, 

Most urgent passions glow within the soul ! 

It is the hour of fancy and desire ! 

The man of earth is the one that truly lives, 

And not the dreamer in the misty clouds! 

40 



(She puts her arms around him and 
kisses him full upon the lips.) 
Walter, my heart ! Good-bye. 

(She slowly goes, stops at the door 
and throws him a kiss. Exit Mollie. 
The clatter of her horse's hoofs is 
heard receding in the distance. 
Walter goes over and picks up Nel- 
lie's photograph.) 

Walter. 

Dear Nell ! O, what a tender hope springs up, 
Unfolding with the sweetness of a rose, 
Amid the thorns of the wilderness ! 

CURTAIN. 



41 



Second Hct 

Time : One month later. 

Place : Reception room in Mrs. Bostwick's house in 
Baltimore. 

Mrs. Bostwick and Willie Stokes are standing and 
talking. She is dressed for an afternoon reception, and 
is drawing on her gloves. Her costume is very ele- 
gant, of the latest style, and Stokes is dressed in frock 
coat, demi vest, spats, and has silk hat and cane in his 
hand. He is a great dandy. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

Why don't you ask Willard Foss to your box party ? 
Willie. 

O, goodness ! Nobody knows him. I couldn't think 
of it. 

Mrs. Bostivick. 

But he was invited to the Melton's ball. 

Willie. 

The Melton's! You don't say? 

Mrs. Bostivick. 

Yes, and to the Cates-Appleby wedding breakfast ; 
and to Flossie Beecham's reception. 

Willie. 

Goodness gracious ! But no one ever heard of him 
before. He was selling insurance when I went 
abroad. 



42 



Mrs. Bostwick. 

His uncle died in England, and they say he inherits 
a large estate. 

Willie. 

By Jove ! I must put him up at the club. Deuced 
nice fellow, you know. I always liked him. Of 
course, I shall ask him — charming fellow ! 

Mrs. Bostivick. 

Mildred Bunker brought seven trunks of gowns from 
Paris. 

Willie. 

O, dear, I wish I could see them. 
Mrs. Bostivick. 

Marjorie Knollys is spending the day with us. She 
is Nellie's dearest friend. Her father died three years 
ago. She is an orphan. 

Willie. 
Clevah woman ! 

Mrs. Bostivick. 

She is the very pink of matrimonial opportunity, of 
the highest station, young, beautiful, wealthy, and 
wouldn't even encumber her husband with a mother- 
in-law. I should think some young bachelors I know 
would — hmmmm — bestir themselves. 

(Willie struts back and forth, great- 
ly pleased with his oivn personal 
charms.) 

Willie. 

Ha ! Ha ! Clevah, very clevah ! 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

Mrs. Fontleroy has issued cards for the same evening 
I am giving my cotillion. 



43 



Willie. 
But I am not going to hers ; I am coming to yours. 

Mrs. Bostzvick 
(Sarcastically) — Then it will be a success, I am sure! 

Willie. 
Clevah, by jove ! I say, I didn't mean that, you know. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 
No; you didn't see it in time. 

Willie. 
I say! 

(Enter Hector Cloman and Nellie, 
clothed in automobile garments.) 

Nellie. 

Mother, dear, have we kept you waiting? 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

Mr. Stokes has been entertaining me. 

Willie. 

Very delighted, I am sure. 

Nellie. 
We have been all around the park. It is grand, moth- 
er ; the air is so fresh, and it is the dearest machine. 
You musn't be late, mother. Give my love to Mrs. 
Meeker and everybody, and tell her I am sorry I 
couldn't come. 

(Nellie steps to one side to remove 
her zvraps, and is joined by Willie 
Stokes, zvho assists her.) 

Mrs. Bostzvick 
(To Hector) — It is awfully good of you to take us to 
the reception. I am afraid we are imposing upon 
you dreadfully. 



44 



Hector Cloman. 

Not in the least. On the contrary, it is a pleasure. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

You always manage everything so well. What a 
masterful financier you are, organizing corporations, 
running your big shops and bossing so many men. 
You are a giant of executive ability. Is there any- 
thing you ever wanted that you did not get? 

Hector Cloman. 

There is something that I want now. 

Mrs. Bostivick. 
Indeed ? 

Hector Cloman. 
Yes — a wife. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

A wife? Most men do. Do you think there is any 
girl that would not be gratified at such a prospect? 

Hector Cloman. 

You have a very charming daughter. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

There is no doubt of that. Nellie is a dear. I am 
glad you think so. 

Hector Cloman. 
I do indeed. And you approve of it? 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

Most heartily. Who wouldn't? 

(Stokes joins them.) 
Willie. 

I say, old man, it is awfully good of you to take us 
to the reception, you know. 



45 



Hector Cloman. 

Not at all ; you are very welcome. 

Nellie. 
Don't be late, mother. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

I won't. We are going now. Nellie ! Nellie ! come 
and kiss your mother. (Kissing her tenderly and look- 
ing at her with pride.) My daughter! 

Nellie. 
Why, mother ! 

(Exeunt Mrs. Bostzvick and Hector.) 
(At the door Stokes makes a very 
ceremonious bozv to Nellie.) 

Willie. 

Au revoir, mademoiselle ! 

Nellie. 

Au revoir, Mr. Stokes. 

(Exit Willie Stokes.) 
Nellie. 

I do love a machine ! Air. Cloman is awfully kind to 
take us out so often. He says he is going to tour all 
over Europe next summer, and wishes we could go 
along. Wouldn't it be fun ? But I suppose it wouldn't 
be proper. Well, mother ought to know. He is 
awfully nice. 

(Enter James, the butler, with a card, 
which he gives to Nellie.) 

Nellie. 

Air. Vernon! Show him in, James. 

(Enter Walter Vernon.) 
Mr. Vernon! I am so glad to see you. (Cordially 
shaking hands.) 



46 



Walter. 

Nellie ! I always start to call you Miss Bostwick, 
you look so much a queen ; then your glad smile and 
gentle eyes make you Nellie again. 

Nellie. 

That would be very wicked. I am Nellie to you 
always. 

Walter. 

Then why don't you call me Walter? 

Nellie. 
That is different. You are a man, and — 

Walter. 
And? Why shouldn't you? 

Nellie. 

I have always looked up to you so, it doesn't seem 
just right. 

Walter. 
Am I so much older? 

Nellie. 

O, no, not that. I respect you so highly it seems just a 
trifle too familiar. 

Walter. 

Not if you realized how deeply I would cherish that 
familiarity. You see, I have thought of you so con- 
stantly, there is a tenderness, like the perfume of a 
flower, almost an intoxication. It exhales from one's 
sweetheart alone. 



O, Mr. Vernon ! 
Mister? 



Nellie. 
Walter. 

47 



Nellie. 

Well, Walter, then. It is the first time I have ever 
called you so. 

Walter. 

Not the last I hope, but rather like the first tip of 
the dawning sun as it rises, with the glory of day to 
follow. 

Nellie 

(Sitting down) — Come and sit down and talk to me — 
Walter — I like to call you that. 

Walter. 

(Sitting down beside her) — Your presence is like a 
mountain peak, giving the long view, and showing what 
seemed insurmountable obstacles but as hillocks on the 
plain. What really counts is ourselves, and what we 
think and feel. 

Nellie. 

You think a great deal, don't you, and feel very deeply? 

Walter. 

Too deeply, perhaps, and yet not so, since my thoughts, 
like the roads to Rome, all lead to admiration of your 
womanhood ! 

Nellie. 

O, Mr. Vernon ! You must get quite romantic out in 
your beautiful valley. 

Walter. 

Yes, dreaming of things that are not there; es- 
pecially on moonlight nights in the spring. There is 
a dolce-far-niente that goes to the heart, with the frogs 
crooning and crooning like jolly companions down in 
the pool. 

Nellie. 

Wasn't it dreadfully lonesome? 

48 



Walter. 

Yes, but spontaneous fantasies would rise of home and 
happiness, with the glaring day world gone to sleep 
and the filmy night realm, with its queer host of 
creatures, come to life — hoot owls, panthers, bats and 
mice. 

Nellie. 

And then you would grow hungry for companionship? 

Walter. 

For more than that. The music of the wilderness, so 
weird and eerie, was a dulcet song of love to me. Do 
you blame me, then, Nellie, for telling you that I love 
you? 

Nellie. 

Blame you? How could I? It shall be the pride of 
my life. 

Walter. 

You see, my material prospects are not very bright; 
but still, I am a mining engineer, whatever else be- 
falls. In the United States there is a well bred class 
of people living on slender means, but cultured in 
heart and mind. From the standpoint of social pomp 
they are of slight account; but living by their own 
standards they are happy, perhaps the happiest of all. 
Would you be contented in that class? 

Nellie. 

You overestimate me in some ways, Walter; not as to 
breeding, I hope ; but I love fine gowns and hats, balls, 
flowers, excitement, the crush of many people, to be 
admired and show exquisite taste in everything, to 
have a butler and liveried servants, to travel and all 
that ; not because it costs money, nor as a standard to 
judge my friends by, but because I am at least half a 
worldling. Monotony would bore me to death. I love 
society. 



49 



(Enter Marjorie Knollys in hand- 
sonic tailor made gozvn and hat, 
dressed for the street.) 

Marjorie. 

Nellie, Mrs. Exton wants — Why, Mr. Vernon, I didn't 
know you were here. 

Walter. 

(Rising- and shaking hands) — How do you do, Mar- 
jorie? 

Marjorie. 

(Very sweetly) — I am AWFULLY glad to see you 

Nellie 

(Rather tartly) — Please don't forget your message, 
Marjorie. 

Marjorie. 

I won't dear. Mrs. Exton is ready to try on your 
gown, and is waiting. 

Nellie 

(With a toss of her head) — O, well, then, if you will 
BOTH excuse me I will go. 

(Exit Nellie.) 
Marjorie. 

It is quite like old times to have you back again. You 
are a deserter to have staid away for so many long 
years. 

Walter. 

They were long enough, beyond doubt. 

Marjorie. 

Do you remember the horseback rides we used to take 
together, when I was a girl? 

Walter. 

Indeed I do; they were happy times. 

50 



Mar jo vie. 

And the day old Jack ran away, with the bit in his 
teeth, and you sprang- from your horse at full gallop 
and caught him by the reins at the peril of your life, 
and saved me from being maimed or killed — and your 
arm was broken? 

Walter. 
He was a bad horse. 

Marjorie. 
I owe my life to you. 

Walter. 

I could not afford to lose such a true friend, for 
where could I find such another ? Are you going out ? 

Marjorie. 

I am waiting for Mr. MacGeoghegan. He will be 
here in a few minutes. He is always punctual. We 
are going to the lawyers on business. 

Walter. 

Are you a Hetty Green? 

Marjorie. 

Not at all. But orphans are trained in the practical 
school of necessity, and learn early that, not guiding 
the stream of events, we are carried out to sea. You 
must be glad to get back among people again. 

Walter. 

Isolation is a monster. It rusts the delicate machinery 
of the mind like hinges on a door, all gummed and 
clogged up with the rubbish of inaction. 



Marjorie. 
Are you fond of society? 



51 



Walter. 

In a sense. But I feel like an interloper in the con- 
stant push to gain some petty advantage, to outvie 
and outshine. Good breeding should supersede con- 
tention in high life. 

Marjorie. 

You are too old fashioned. You haven't caught the 
money craze yet. 

Walter. 

I couldn't very well, with my nose always at the grind 
stone. 

Marjorie. 

I'hear you have had very hard luck. 

Walter. 

For years I have scarcely called a penny mine, always 
scraping and saving to feed the omniverous maw of 
insatiable debt — debt that hangs like a gloomy cloud 
in the sky. It is cruel to see the best of life slipping 
rapidly by. 

Marjorie. 

What do you call the best of life ? 

Walter. 

Home, for one thing; the sanctuary of the heart, most 
sacred of all things on earth ; then some active occu- 
pation. Life is like a mighty engine, meant to pull 
loads, not to rust in the shop. Manhood exults in the 
arena of action, and ambition, impelled by worth and 
merit, longs to unsheath its powers. 

Marjorie. 

Love, manhood, ambition, all in mercenary bondage: 
it is a shame ! This big forest domain which your 
father bought should make you a prince ! You have 
told me how that horrid man has been trying to de- 



52 



fraud you out of it, and how hard to raise the money 
to beat him off. But why do you go to strangers in 
your peril, instead of to your friends. Why don't 
you trust them just a little more? 

Walter. 

But I have not found any to help me. With the most 
legitimate proposition, they turn me down as if I 
were offering a gold brick. 

Mar jo He. 

Financiers are as cold as ice. You say the best of 
life is slipping by. Will you let it slip ? What do you 
care for most? 

Walter. 

Candidly? I am in love. 

Marjorie 

(Tenderly) — In love! Then you have at stake the 
throne, the crown, the sceptre of life, the purple and 
the rose-colored chamber all in one. 

Walter. 
Yes; I love Nellie. 

Marjorie 

( Crestfallen ) —Nellie ? Nellie ? Strange ! ( A short 
pause.) I wish you the best of luck and happiness. 
You and I are friends, are we not ? Dear, good friends 
forever ? 

Walter. 
With all my heart. 

Marjorie. 

(Reaching him both hands) — You promise? 

Walter. 

Upon my honor, and deeply honored to pledge my 
honor in the cause. 



53 



Marjorie. 

You trust me? 

Walter. 

Your poise of mind displays clear truth in every act, 
governed well in the straightest course to the sound- 
est end. Most richly endowed am I to be your chosen 
friend. 

Marjorie. 

I think if you go to the library you will soon find 

Nellie there. 

(Exit Walter. Marjorie stands in 
deep thought. In a few moments 
enter Donald MacGeoghegan in his 
overcoat, with Jiis hat in his hand.) 

Donald. 

Miss Knollys, I have the cab ready. 

Marjorie. 

Mr. MacGeoghegan, I want you to make inquiries for 
me about Mr. Vernon's affairs, and how they stand. 

Donald. 

Surely, I can tell you all about that. It is common 
talk on the street. He has two notes to pay at the 
Safe Deposit and Trust Company, amounting to fifty 
thousand dollars, in less than two weeks — on the 17th 
of November. If not paid the mortgage will be fore- 
closed. As there is no equity of redemption in that 
state, it will be final. 

Marjorie. 
And he will be penniless? 

Donald. 
Absolutely. 

Marjorie. 

Well, the notes will be paid. 



54 



Donald. 

Pardon me, I think not. It is virtually impossible. 

Marjorie. 

(Firmly) — I will pay them myself. 

Donald 

(In astonishment) — You? 

Marjorie. 

Yes; but Mr. Vernon must not know of it. My agent 
must go to the trustee and pay in his name, as if the 
money came from him, but not until, say the 15th. 
Give him every chance first to raise the money him- 
self. It is rather a ticklish point of pride you see. 
If he can't — then I pay. 

Donald 

(In consternation) — But, my dear Miss Knollys — 

Marjorie. 

No buts, now, I pray you. 

Donald. 

Fifty thousand dollars ! If he should — if he should — 
lose the law suit — 

Marjorie. 

It is my money, so don't worry. He is a friend of 

mine — 

{A sudden light dawns on Donald. 
He throws up his hands and looks 
up as if in enforced resignation.) 

Donald. 

( Skeptically) — A friend ! 



55 



Marjorie. 

And I am going to help him out. But he must never 
know — (aside) until after he is married to Nellie. A 
friend and a friend's lover, a double service by a 
single stroke. Let's go. 

(Exit Marjorie, Donald following, 
very crestfallen, in the rear.) 

Donald. 

(In a God-save-us attitude) — A friend! 

(Exit Donald. Enter Nellie, followed 
by Walter.) 

Walter. 

My conscience is clear. It will be the beginning of a 
new era. Thenceforth my life, freed from the past, 
will belong to me, and what I can make of it. You 
are its inspiration, Nellie, and some way I shall suc- 
ceed. Is it not even better to go forth, hand in hand, 
meeting the buffets of fortune as they come, with high 
resolve to reach a glorious end; a more womanly tri- 
umph for you to fire the heart and impel the whole ma- 
chinery of the mind with objective purpose, jointly 
winning and owning what is won, than to start out all 
cloyed with a rich man's bounty? There is so much 
in resolve. Nothing is too good for you, and to get 
it for you is my most earnest wish. Give me the 
chance and let me show what I can do. 

Nellie. 

You are perfectly splendid, Walter. Indeed, I like 
you very, very much. Talk to me some more. I 
love to hear you talk. 

(Enter Mrs. Bostzvick and Willie 
Stokes, both chattering so that 
neither is understood. Willie is 
much flustered.) 



56 



Willie. 

(Walking- excitedly up and down) — I've been insulted ! 
I've been insulted ! 

Nellie. 

Why, what is the matter? 

Willie. 
I've been insulted ! I've been insulted ! 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 
Tell us all about it, Willie. 

Willie. 
I've been insulted ! I've been insulted ! 

Nellie. 
Tell us what is the matter. Who did it? 

Willie. 

I've been insulted! It was that Butler chap. He 
said I was a blooming ass ! 

Nellie. 

O, how mean. How did it happen? 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

Tell how it happened, Willie. 

Willie. 

It was at the reception. I was talking to Miss Fen- 
triss. I was telling all about my trip abroad. Then 
this Butler man came up and said, "May I show you 
the conservatory, Miss Fentriss?" And she said, "If 
Mr. Stokes will excuse me." "O, but," I said, "I'm 
not half through yet, I am not half through." And 
then he turned his back on me and took her arm under 
his and dragged her off. And I said, "Miss Fentriss, 



57 






I haven't told you half; wait a minute." She looked 
back over her shoulder and said, "You see, I am help- 
less." The great, big brute! He is quarter back on! 
the football team, and as big as a gorilla. Of course, 
she could not help herself. 

Walter. 

And they left you standing there all alone, with no 
one to talk to? 

Willie. 

Yes, all alone, with no one to talk to. Then later I saw 
him in the reception room smoking a cigarette. He 1 ; 
said, "Have a cigarette, Stokes ?" I said, "Not from i] 
you; I only smoke with gentlemen!" He said, "You 
are a blooming ass !" He said "You are a blooming 
ass !" 

Walter. 

He dared to say that to you? 
Willie. 

Yes, to me! to me! And I said "I'll chastise you!" 
He said, "You are a mollycoddle!" And I would 
have punched him in the eye, and kicked him down the 
steps — but — but — I restrained myself. 

Walter. 

Good thing you did ; you might have hurt him. 
Willie. 

I didn't want to then. Next time, I — I — won't be so 
magnanimous. I'll cut him on the street! When I 
see him coming I'll raise my head like this, and look 
ahead with a vacant stare and pass him by ! I'll cut 
him dead ! 

Mrs. Bostzvick, Nellie and Walter 
(in chorus) 

That's right; cut him dead! 

58 



Willie. 

1 will; I'll cut him dead! I won't speak to such a 
chap ! He insulted me, and I'll cut him dead ! I guess 
that will fix him ! 

Nellie 

(Soothingly) — He was very rude. 

Willie. 

Yes, he was very rude. He's a brute ! He's a cad ! 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

There, there, Willie, don't worry any more. 

Nellie. 

I guess he was jealous. You know he is sweet on 
Miss Fentriss ; some say they are engaged. 

Willie. 

That's it, ha! ha! He is jealous of me! Ha! ha! 
That's it; he is jealous! 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

Take him into the library, Nellie, and show him the 
pictures. 

Nellie. 

Yes, come with me, Mr. Stokes. We will look at the 
pictures together. 

Willie. 

I'll cut him dead! I'll cut him dead! 

(Bxeunt Nellie and Willie.) 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

Wasn't that a dreadful calamity? 

Walter. 

(Laughing heartily) — He'll get over it after a while. 



59 



Mrs. Bostzvick. 

O, no — you don't know Willie. He never forgets a 
grudge. 

Walter. 

How was the reception? 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 
Very beautiful, indeed. Why don't you go out more? j 

Walter. 
Some day I may, when I can afford it. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

(Sitting down) — I never saw you look so much like 
your father, Walter. 

Walter. 

We are more alike in temperament than looks. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

I remember him so well, and your mother, too. 

Walter. 

When we sold the old home, thank heaven it was de- 
molished, its memories undesecrated. How I should 
hate to think of strangers living in mother's room. 
But you knew us all in the olden days. How natural, 
then, that I should love your daughter. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 
What! 



Walter. 

ist girl i 
other like her. 



She is the finest girl in the world! There is none 



Mrs. Bostzvick. 
(Rising hastily) — You silly boy ! What do you mean? 

60 



Walter. 

Nellie. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

What about Nellie? 

Walter. 

I love her. I want her to be my wife. It is like an 
echo from the past and a dream of the future ! 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

Nonsense ! A dream, indeed ! Foolish, foolish, fool- 
ish child. What are you talking about? You marry 
Nellie ? How ridiculous ! 

Walter. 

Ridiculous ? Why shouldn't I ? 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

How absurd a question ! Why — why — in a few weeks 
you will be ruined, penniless ! Why — it's — it's — ab- 
surd ! You are walking in your sleep ! Whatever put 
such a notion in your head? 

Walter. 

Nellie's beauty put it there, and in my heart, too. But 
I fail to see how it is absurd. We are of equal birth. 
I am a gentleman. Our families are on a par. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

O, yes, as to that. But you can't take care of her. 
Why, it is perfectly, supremely ridiculous ! It is the 
most foolish thing I ever heard ! 

Walter. 

(Offended) — I don't understand you, Mrs. Bostwick. 
You have always pretended to be a friend. I thought 
you liked me. 

61 



Mrs. Bostwick. 

That is different. You are a nice fellow, Walter. I 
do like you — or have to this minute. I am perfectly 
willing to be a mother to you, but not a mother-in- 
law. Such a freak notion ! 

Walter. 
Nellie does not think so — I do not think so — 

Mrs. Bostwick. 
Has it gone as far as that ? Have you spoken ? 

Walter. 

Yes; and it will go farther, if I can make it. Nellie 
likes me. She says so. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

Well, I don't, and I will never consent. It is not you 
that I object to, but your condition. What have you 
ever done to warrant such a pretention? What re- 
sults can you show in the world ? Nothing ! Nothing ! 

Walter. 

An inheritance of family debts, mountain high, has 
kept me down; and now, in addition, 1 am fighting a 
serious attempt at fraud. When it is all over, win or 
lose, my life for the first time will belong to myself; 
and I will achieve success. I haven't had the chance 
before. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

Stupid ! Do you think my daughter is going to wait 
for you to make a fortune, or marry you without one ? 
What are your chances? One in a million! If you 
had ability there would already be results ! Results ! 
O, you are good, and honest, and gentle, but I want 
more than that. Shall my daughter go to live in some 
little, old, dingy house, become a drudge, nurse her 



62 



own babies, cook your meals or have one or two ser- 
vants to help ? Help ! A semi-menial herself ! Well, 
I should think not ! You should have better sense ! 

Walter. 

She has a right to do her own choosing. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

And I will see that she chooses right. After twenty- 
one years of care is her mother not to be considered? 
Here in Baltimore you will see old families, once social 
leaders, now living in grinding poverty, shabbily clad, 
hampered by tradition and untrained for business, 
steeped in the apathy of a hopeless fate — decayed gen- 
tility ! God forbid ! It is horrible ! In contrast with 
the opulence of modern life how ugly and contemptible 
that meagre state appears ! It makes me shudder ! 
None of it for me or my daughter. Wretched incom- 
petence ! Never ! 

Walter. 

You would force your daughter to marry against her 
will? 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

Not at all ; but use a mother's power to guide her will 
in the right direction. We must be on top. 

Walter. 

But I am willing to work, to undertake anything. 

Mrs. Bostzvick. 

It isn't in you. You are a dreamer. You think too 
much and act too little. You don't grasp the world 
of realities. Other men have succeeded, why haven't 
you? It is no answer that you have not had the 
chance. Let us judge by success and that alone. 
True, you don't lie, or cheat, or condescend to mean- 
ness. You treat others as gentle-bred when, nine 

63 



cases out of ten, they are not, which is stupid. You 
wouldn't hurt a fly unnecessarily. You would risk 
your life to save a baby, sacrifice happiness for prin- 
ciple, or march to death for duty ; but all of that is not 
what counts. You haven't the self-assertive tempera- 
ment which dominates. You don't push in ahead of 
others and grab all you want and more too, and let 
others fail and bear their losses. Magnanimity is no 
poor man's privilege. You can't save the land your 
father bought, much less make a fortune of your own. 
Go ! Get rich ! Prove that you can do it ; then talk 
of Nellie, not before. But it isn't in you. You can't 
do it. 

(Exit Mrs. Bostzvick, much excited.) 

Walter. 

That is absolute stupidity ! A dreamer because I think 
— instead of jabbering without doing so ! Don't grasp 
the world of realities, because I am wrestling with the 
hand of fate ! Success the only standard — fit for a 
pirate! Stupid it is, to treat others as gentle-bred, 
when they are not, and I plead guitly to the count — 
a monstrous fault — but corrected with time and re- 
pentance ! Don't push in ahead of others and grab all 
I want and more too — fiddlesticks ! — mere petty com- 
petition among small minds. An idealist is not under- 
stood, that is all. It is deep thinking, steady force, 
good judgment, applied in big enterprises, that win 
success ; not the flare and tooting of a pretentious man- 
ner that bids for every minute's notice. 

(Walter walks slowly, thinking, over 
to the door and pauses.) 
Give me the man of quiet mien, 
Whose strength in great results is seen. 

(Exit Walter.) 

CURTAIN. 



64 



Gbirfc Hct , 
Scene ©ne 

Scene : Walter's room in Baltimore, in Mrs. Cas- 
sidy's house. Time : One week later than before. 
The room is very bleak and cold looking. Walter en- 
ters, wearing a good overcoat. He looks pale, thin, 
solemn and crestfallen. Walter hangs up his hat 
and coat, sits in a chair, and falls into a brown study. 
He suddenly shivers from cold, blows on his hands, 
gets up, goes to a stove, shakes the ashes out, looks 
into the coal scuttle and finds it empty. Goes over and 
gets his overcoat and puts it on again. 

Walter. 

Even Nellie is more worldy than I thought. But no, 
she is true. Nellie is true. Yes, Nellie is true. But 
her mother is dead against me. If I could only save 
my lands ! If I could only save my lands ! 

(Drops into a chair, deeply thinking. 
Enter Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. Burke 
in a belligerent attitude. They both 
talk with a strong Hibernian accent.) 

Mrs. Cassidy. 

Mister Vernon, we w'ud loike to be afther havin' a 
talk wid ye. 

Yes, we w'ud. 

Well? 



Mrs. Burke. 
Walter. 



Mrs. Cassidy. 
It is goin' on four weeks ye hav'nt paid the rint. 



Mrs. Burke. 
And ye owe me fer the washin' till I want to git paid. 

Mrs. Cassidy. 

An' me an' Mrs. Burke has talked it over in a con- 
ference loike, and we has come to the conclusion 
unanimous to demand our roights. 

Mrs. Burke. 

Which ye can't put us off anny longer, fer we want to 
git paid. 

Mrs. Cassidy. 

It's the mu'ny ! the mu'ny ! 

Mrs. Burke. 

And if ye haven't got it ye shu'd go to wurruk an' 
earn it. 

Mrs. Cassidy. 

Loike anny uther dacent man. 

Mrs. Burke. 

Me as has foive childer', an' me husband a droiver fer 
th' Adams Express Company, an' Pat says to me, 
that's me man, he says, "Jennie," says 'e, "Ye aint no 
beauty fer to make a owl bloind, an' yer stoyle aint 
loike a Diany," he says, "but ye'r as honest as the 
sunlight," he says, "ye'r as straight as a doi, an' Oi'm 
proud uv ye," an' Oi want me mu'ny fer the wash. 

Mrs. Cassidy. 

An' me fer th' rint. Wid f hree childer' an' a widdy 
mesilf, me man bein' tooi, uv pneumonle a Saturda' 
night an' dead by Chuesda' an' Father Matthew 
prached the funeral oration, wid six carriages an' a 
hearse, an' Jim McCarthy said we had the foinest 



GO 



wake he iver injoyed, me oldest bein' a girl goin' to 
school an' the baby that sweet, the darlint — an' if ye 
aint got the mu'ny ye shu'd go to wurruk. 

Mrs. Burke. 
Loike anny other dacent man and pay yer debts. 

Mrs. C as sidy. 

A livin' on crackers an' milk, loike a ghost ye'r so 
pale and thin, it's starvin' ye aire, an' dressed loike a 
dood, wid thim rich people, it's decavin' 'em ye aire, to 
make 'em think ye'r a gintleman, an' ye don't even pay 
yer rint an' yer wash. Shame on ye ! 

Mrs. Burke. 
A foine koind uv a gintleman ! 

Mrs. C as sidy. 
A dead bate, that's what ye aire ! 
Mrs. Burke. 



A dead bate! 



Walter. 



Ladies, you do me injustice. A man may be caught 
in a pinch at times. But you shall be paid. 

Mrs. Cassidy. 

Ye've promised that before an' it isn't promises we 
wants but the mu'ny ! the mu'ny ! — dressed loike a 
dood as if ye cu'd buy out the town an' a part of the 
sthate. 

Walter. 

(Takes off his overcoat) Here take this, pawn it, pay 
yourselves and if there is any change bring it to me. 
You can do that kind of thing better than I can. 

67 



Mrs. Cassidy. 

O, the foine gintleman ! an' the beautiful coat ! 

Mrs. Burke. 

That's what Oi call a rale gintleman ! Handsome is as 
handsome does ! 

Mrs. Cassidy. 

An' he called us ladies! 

Mrs. Burke. 

Yes, yer honor, an' good luck to yer honor. 

Mrs. Cassidy. 

An' may ye see betther days, poor man, and ye shall 
go out an' get a beefsteak an' pratties an' coffee if Oi 
have to pay fer it mesilf. 

Mrs. Burke. 

An' Oi'l pay half if it comes to that. 

Mrs. Cassidy. 

God bless yer honor an' good luck to ye. 

{Exeunt Mrs. Cassidy and Mrs. 
Burke with the overcoat.) 

Walter. 

It was bound to come to that anyway; it might as 

well come now. 

(Sinks in a chair, his head falls in 
his arms. Enter Peter Hut chins and 
Matthew Haley.) 

Matthew Haley. 
Is he sleeping? 

Peter. 

I guess not; he is just blue, (walks over and taps 
Walter on the arm) Hello Vernon, we would like to 
have a talk. 



Walter. 
(Looking up) You! 

Peter. 

You might ask us to have a seat. Well never mind, 
we came on business. 

Walter. 

(Rising) Pardon me gentlemen, you took me by sur- 
prise. Pray be seated. 

{They all draw chairs up to the 
table and sit down.) 

Peter. 

Well, Vernon, this is Monday, the 15th of November. 

Have a cigar? Don't smoke? Haley? 

(Haley takes one and they both light 
their cigars.) ; 

And Wednesday is the 17th. You know what that 

means. 

Walter. 

Well enough; my notes fall due. 
Peter. 

Have you raised the money? Will you be ready to 
pay? 

Walter. 
I have not. 

Peter. 

Too bad, Vernon; that leaves you in bad shape. 

Walter. 

(Testily) Did you come here to tell me that? 

Peter. 

Keep cool, keep cool, my boy. You don't know your 
friends. 



Walter. 

Not if you are one of them. 

Peter. 

Tut, tut, tut, tut ! See here, Vernon, you are not such 
a bad sort. I have come here to give you a chance. 

Walter. 

(Eagerly) A chance? You will extend the time? 

Peter. 

O, no, not that — that is impossible. But you can make 
ten thousand dollars. That will put you on your feet 
again. There is a big difference between ten thousand 
dollars and nothing. I have been strapped myself and 
know what it feels like. 

Walter. 
(Cautiously) What is your scheme? 

Peter. 

Commission! Commission! I will give you a chance 
to put through a deal and earn a commission. 

Walter. 
What deal? 

Peter. 
You know old James Bryce? 

Walter. 

Mr. Bryce? Why certainly; he is an old friend of my 
father's. 

Peter. 

Exactly. Well, when your father bought the hundred 
thousand acres, Bryce bought sixteen hundred acres 
adjoining. 



70 



Walter. 
Yes, I know all about that. 

Peter. 
He is an old man now, over eighty. 

Walter. 

Yes, eighty-two or three. 

Peter. 

And not much on business, stupid, in his dotage. 

Walter. 
That is possible. 

Peter. 

I would like to buy that sixteen hundred acres. 

Walter. 

Why don't you go to see him yourself? 

Peter. 

Haley has been to see him. He is living out in the 
country, near the suburbs. 

Haley. 

He is too old to talk business. He says he doesn't 
know — he doesn't know — but, undoubtedly, if you will 
recommend him to sell, he will do it. 

Peter. 

He is just an old dotard and can't make up his own 
mind. He wants you to make it up for him. 

Haley. 
And he is coming here this afternoon to see you. 

71 



Peter. 

See here, Vernon, I am giving you the chance of your 
life. 

Walter. 

Have you offered him any price ? 
Peter. 

Yes, that is all fixed; there is nothing to argue on 
price. He just wants you to tell him to sell — to O. K. 
it, as it were. He is an old dotard. 

Walter. 
How much did you offer him ? 

Peter. 
You know he paid two thousand dollars for it. 

Walter. 
Yes, I remember; but what have you offered him? 

Peter. 
Thirty-two thousand dollars. 

Walter. 

(Laughing heartily and rising from his chair) Thirty- 
two thousand dollars ! That is utterly ridiculous ! 
Why, it is a gold mine ! That is where Murdock 
found the placer sands. 

Peter. 

But Bryce doesn't know anything about that. If we 
raise our price it would only make him suspicious and 
harder to deal with. 

Walter. 

By Jove! I have been so absorbed in my own affairs 
I never even thought to write or see him. 



72 



Peter. 
So it just takes your O. K. to make a deal. 

Walter. 
(Angrily) That is an insult! 

Peter. 

Insult? To give you the chance of making ten thou- 
sand dollars in an afternoon? 

Walter. 

No ! But to expect me to cheat my father's old friend, 
to betray his confidence ! 

Peter. 

Cheat nothing. He is eighty-two or three years old, I 
tell you ; he will be dead in a year or two and never 
know the difference. He couldn't spend that much 
money to save his life. 

Walter. 

That river bed may be worth millions ! Clearwater 
Creek, I mean. 

Peter. 

Don't worry about that. It is the ten thousand dollars 
you are to think about. 

Walter. 

Ten thousand dollars be damned ! 

Peter. 

(Ruffled) Vernon, don't be a fool, (rising) don't let 
your chance slip by. 

Walter. 

I'd rather be shot than do such a scurvy trick ! 

{Peter and Matthezv Haley step aside 
and confer a few moments.) 



73 



Peter. 






(Bluffingly) So! You are going to hold us up, heigh ! j 
Well, now see here, what's your price? What's your 



price? 



Walter. 



(Indignantly) I haven't any price, I'm not a Judas! 
If that old man comes here it will be with perfect 
trust in my integrity, because he knows he is weak, 
seeking protection in his age, to learn the truth with 
faith in my answers and confidence in my father's son. 

Peter. 
(Slyly) Aha, I see! 

(Talks again with Haley.) 
(Blandly) Say, Vernon, I didn't think you were such 
a hagler. I see ! You want an extension of your 
notes, then your own lands will be saved. By gad ! 
You have an eye to business ! But our time is short. 
It is a hold up, but I'll do it. So there now ; we have 
made our bargain. I will extend your notes and give 
you ten thousand dollars to boot. Gad ! You are a 
squeezer. 

Walter. 
You villain ! 

Peter. 

What, more? More? No, I wont, by thunder! You 
are a fool ! If you don't put this deal through you are 
a beggar, stripped penniless, a mere stray dog in the 
street! Then there is Miss Bostwick. By gad, she is 
a queen! 

Walter. 

Don't mention her name. I wont stand for that. 

Peter. 

Vernon, you were never made to mix with the vulgar 
mass, scrimping and saving, twisting and squirming 



to make ends meet. I know your kind — proud, high- 
strung, above the world's methods, yet crushed be- 
neath its power! You ought to roll around in your 
own carraige, the master of high life, with the world 
at your feet, Walter Vernon, the gentleman, the aris- 
tocrat, sought after and honored, and Nellie Bostwick, 
his wife ! By gad ! That is a picture ! Why you are 
born for it, as a duck for water, and it is money that 
makes the difference. Money! Money! Get it within 
the law, but get it, — how, makes but little difference, 
but get it! And see it grow, from a pile to a bigger 
pile ! Bigger ! Bigger ! Bigger ! Get rich ! Rich ! 
Rich ! Men will sell their souls and women their 
bodies and their virtues for it. Money ! Money ! That's 
the thing! 

Walter. 

You are the most sordid wretch I have ever met in 
my life ! 

(A noise of someone talking outside 

is heard.) 

Peter. 
He is coming now. This is the show-down, (confiden- 
tially) Vernon, old man, I will tell you a secret. I 
have had my prospectors out there on that land for six 
weeks. It is a bonanza ! It is worth eight or ten mil- 
lions if a cent, and the Lord knows how much more. 
You hook this old fish and I'll give you one-fifth in- 
terest in the mine besides freeing your own lands 
from my mortgage. That is letting you in on a part- 
nership basis. We three will all be rich ! Rich ! Be 
careful ! He is a wily old fox. We can't get him 
without your assistance, that is why we have come to 
you ; now be careful you don't spoil the game. 

(Enter James Bryce, a very old man 
and feeble, but clear minded. Is 
dressed in old style southern gentle- 
man's dress, broadcloth frock coat, 
fluffy shirt, slouch hat.) 



75 



James Bryce. 

Howdy, Walter, howdy. 

Walter. 

Why Mr. Bryce, I am awfully glad to see you. How 
are you, sir? (They shake hands.) 

Bryce. 

Getting old, Walter — rheumatism in the back; but I 
don't give up. I am spry yet. You look like 3'our 
father when he was a young man. A gentleman of 
the old school. A fine man your father was. He died 
at sixty-six. They all drop off one by one, all but me, 
and I will be going soon. 

Walter. 

I hope not for a long time ; you look so well and 
strong. Wont you have a seat? 

Bryce. 

(Seating himself) O! O! It is rheumatism! These 
damp winds are awful. 

Haley. 

How are you, Mr. Bryce. You remember me? Mr. 
Haley— 

Bryce. 

(Defiantly) I remember you, sir — 

Haley. 

And Mr. Hutchins — we thought we would meet you 
here. 

Bryce. 

(To Walter) They keep pestering me about the timber 

76 



land out in the valley. I am too old to sell (to Haley) 
I don't trust you, sir. (to Walter) What could I do 
with the money? It is only for my grandchildren, not 
for me. There is William's son, Jimmy, named after 
me, and Mary's two children. If your father were 
here he would tell me what to do. A gentleman of 
the old school! 

Peter. 

The price we have offered is an inducement. We are 
buying for a large concern which will own all around 
your piece and that is why we want it. Thirty-two 
thousand dollars is a large price, more than it is 
worth. 

Bryee. 

Thirty-two thousand dollars ! That is a big sum. What 
do you think of it, Walter? Thirty-two thousand dol- 
lars ! It is wonderful ! I bought it on your father's 
judgment. What could I do with the money if I sold? 

Haley. 

Buy sound municipal or railroad bonds — 

Bryee. 

(Testily) I am not asking you, sir! (to Walter) 
These commercial people — they don't understand. 

Peter. 
The land is not worth nearly that much — 

Bryee. 

(Suspiciously) How do I know but it is worth much 
more? I don't trust you, sir, either of you! I don't 
know you, sir ! 

Peter. 

Mr. Vernon will tell you that fifteen dollars an acre 
is a full price for the best timber land. We are offer- 
ing you twenty dollars. 



77 



Bryce. 

Eh ! Walter, is it true ? 

Walter. 
That is a fact. 

You see, then, that thirty-two thousand dollars is very 
high. 

Bryce. 

It is a lot of money. It is a big stroke, Walter, a big 
stroke ! 

Peter. 

Knowing that you were going back to the country we 
have had a contract drawn up — (taking a paper out 
of his pocket) so we could fix this deal up before you 
leave. 

Bryce. 

That is a big sum. It is all it is worth, eh! Walter? 
What shall I do— shall I take it ? 

Walter. 

My advice would be to sell the timberland for thirty- 
two thousand dollars, but to reserve all mineral rights, 
or land where mineral is found. 

Bryce. 

Mineral? What mineral? 

Walter. 

Your land contains a gold mine, one of the richest 
in the country. 

Bryce. 

(Rising in great excitement) Gold mine! Gold mine! 
How is that, sir, you never said anything about a gold 
mine ! 



78 



Peter. 
It is a lie ! There is no gold mine. 

Haley. 
(To Walter) You damn fool! 

Bryce. 
(To Walter) What is it about this gold mine? 

Walter. 

The bottom of Clearwater Creek that runs through 
your land is rich with placer sands, and must be worth 
some millions of dollars. 

Bryce. 

(To Peter) You robber! You liar! You scamp! How 
dare you — 

Peter. 

O, shut up, you old monkey ! 
Bryce. 

How dare you — you — you — O-O — (to Haley) You 
thief! You scalawag! You are a brace of liars and 
knaves ! 

(Retreating towards the door and 

shaking his stick.) 

Don't you ever bother me again ! Don't you come 
near me ! A gold mine ! Worth millions ! You scala- 
wag ! Robbers ! Robbers ! I won't sell to anybody ! I 
won't sell ! A gold mine ! A gold mine ! 

(Exit James Bryce.) 

Peter. 

(To Walter, very vindictively) You fool! You double- 
cross traitor ! You have betrayed us ! I'll fix you for 
this! 



79 



Haley. 

Why didn't you keep your damn mouth shut ! 

Peter. 

You blithering idiot! I hope you'll starve in the 
street! You beast of a pauper! I'll give you mercy! 
I'll give you mercy! I'll grind you to dust! Wait till 
your notes fall due next Wednesday ! After all I of- 
fered you — to make you rich, a partner — you double 
dyed Judas ! O ! such a fool ! Such a bat-blind fool ! 

Walter. 

If you say another word I will knock you down on the 
spot. Leave the room and go instantly. You are a 
couple of scurvy knaves ! 

Haley. 

(Shaking his fist in Walter's face) You have spoiled 
the prettiest deal that ever was framed. We will make 
you smart for this ! 

Walter. 

There is the door ! Get out before I kick you out ! 
Peter. 

If I don't crush the life out of you may I be stricken 

blind ! 

(Exeunt Peter and Haley in great 
rage, having picked up their coats 
and hats.) 

Walter. 

I would rather starve in the street than betray my 

father's old friend! 

(Drops in the chair at the table, look- 
ing very disconsolate. 
Enter Mrs. Cassidy.) 



SO 



Mrs. Cassidy. 

O, the beautiful coat ! And here is the ticket. Oi have 
paid Mrs. Burke and mesilf, and there is two dollars 
and siventeen cints over (lays the money on the table) 
an' ye mus' brace up loike a man an' go out and get 
a beefsteak an' some pratties an' coffee ; ye need it, 
pour soul ! Is there anything else I can do fer ye ? 

Walter. 
Nothing. 

Mrs. Cassidy. 

God bless yer honor ! 

(Exit Mrs. Cassidy.) 

Walter. 

(Looking at the money) Two dollars and seventeen 

cents! (a short pause) O, Nell! 

(His head falls in his arms on the 
table. The wind and rumbling of an 
approaching storm are heard.) 



Scene ttwo 

Place ; reception room in Mrs. Bostwick's house, same 
as in the second act. 

Time : Evening of the same day as the preceding scene. 
Hector Cloman and Nellie Bostwick are at the window 
looking out. He has his arm around her waist, her 
head resting on his shoulder. 

Nellie. 

What a dreadful night it is. Do you suppose anybody 
is out in the storm? 

Hector. 
Not many, I guess. 



81 



Nellie. 
What a shame ! Our elm tree is split in two. 

Hector. 
Lucky the roof is not blown off. 

Nellie. 

We could repair that, but not the tree. 

{The honk of an automobile is 
heard. ) 

Hector. 
Hello, there is Geoffrey, I knew he would get here. 

Nellie. 

Hector, why do you leave in weather like this? Stay 
until it has all gone by. 

Hector. 
The storm is over. It is nothing but a drizzle now. 

Nellie. 

But why do you go, on the very day of our engage- 
ment? Why don't you stay with me? 

Hector. 

Why, Nell, I promised Michael Blaine to meet him at 
the club this evening. He is going to Pittsburg tonight 
on very important business and it really is necessary to 
see him. 

Nellie. 

But can't you see him some other time, or write? 

Hector. 
No. He is going West tonight. 

82 



Nellie. 

(Holding up her left hand) Hector, your ring is sim- 
ply beautiful. A perfect gem ! 

( Throws her arms around his neck. 
He kisses her.) 
I wish you would stay, dear. 

(Hector goes over and taps a Japan- 
ese gong. Bnter James, the butler.) 

Hector. 
My rain coat, James. 

(Exit James.) 
Nellie. 

Will you come to dinner tomorrow night? 

Hector. 
Yes. 

Nellie. 

And stay all evening? 

Hector. 

Yes, indeed. 

(James returns with a large raincoat. 
Helps Hector put it on. The coat en- 
velopes him thoroughly. Exit James.) 

Good bye, Nell. Until tomorrow night. 

Nellie. 

Good bye, dear, I am so glad you have such a fine big 
coat, (with emotion) My darling! And will you tele- 
phone in the morning? 



Yes. 

Good night, dear. 
Good night. 



Hector. 
Nellie. 
Hector. 

83 



(Exit Hector. Nellie returns to the 
window. The honk of the automobile 
is heard growing fainter as it re- 
cedes.) 

Nellie. 

There he goes, (waves her hand) As if he could see 
me! 

(She holds up her Hand and admires 

her ring.) 
Isn't it beautiful. 

(Enter James with a tray and card 

which he gives to Nellie.) 

James. 

A lady called this afternoon when you were out and 
left her card. 

Nellie. 

Mrs. Walton! Who was with her? 

James. 
She was alone, Miss. 

(Enter Mrs. Bostwick.) 

Nellie. 

I am glad she called. I must go to see her. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

(Critically) James, your livery is getting positively 
shabby. 

Nellie. 

Why, mother, it is perfectly good. 
Mrs. Bostwick. 

Go to the tailor and order a new one and send me the 
bill. But the coat must be longer, with more braid and 
gold buttons. Bring me his cut of the latest style. 



84 



James. 
Yes, Madam. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

Who's card is that? 

Nellie. 
Mrs. Walton's. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 
H-m-m-m ! 

Nellie. 

She called this afternoon when neither of us was in. 
Mrs. Bostwick. 

That's lucky. Strange such people call — quite imperti- 
nent. Well, it need go no further. 

Nellie. 

O, mother, she has been so nice to me. I like her. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

She is too gushing entirely. They don't by any means 
belong to the upper set. Her husband makes buckets, 
I think, or something like that. 

Nellie. 
Why, your own father sold vinegar and pickles. 

Mrs. Bostwick. 

You heartless child! Never say that again, (with great 
gusto) I am descended from General Putnam on my 
mother's side ! You guileless babe ! Always say we 
are descended from General Putnam, and never men- 
tion my father again. Come, Nellie, the others are 
waiting for our game of bridge. 

(Bxit Mrs. Bostwick.) 



85 



Nellie. 

I don't believe, just because I am going to marry rich, 
in deserting my old friends, and I wont either. It is 
the last thing in the world Hector would ask. 

{Nellie drops in a chair deeply think- 
ing. Enter James ushering in Wal- 
ter. Exit James. Walter is wet with 
rain and pale with excitement.) 



Nell! 



Walter. 



Nellie. 



(Rising with a start) Walter! Where did you come 
from ? Why, you are dripping wet ! And you look so 
strange! What is it? What is the matter! 

Walter. 

(Very intense, but subdued, no ranting) Nellie! I 
want you to be my wife ! A man can't live alone. I 
want my woman ! It is not money and gowns that 
satisfy the heart, Nell. It is not pomp and vanity that 
make happiness ; nor excitement and many people ; but 
love, the home, the family ! And it is not bricks and 
grounds that make home, Nell, but heart-union, the 
wife, the mother! I am a man, Nell, not rich, but I 
will work for you, Nellie, and we will prosper by de- 
grees. I want my wife, my woman ! 

Nellie. 

O, Walter ! You must not speak like that. You do not 
know what you are doing. Why do you make me hurt 
you so? Can you not see? 

(Shozving him her left hand.) 

Walter. 
A ring ! A diamond ring ! What does it mean ? 



Nellie. 
Can't you guess? 

Walter. 
Is it an engagement ring? 

Nellie. 
Yes. 

Walter. 

Engaged ! Engaged ! To whom ? — Hector Cloman ? 

(Nellie nods her head and chokes 

down a sob.) 
Are — do you — are you sure you — love him? 

Nellie. 
Mr. Vernon! How can you ask? Of course I do! 

Walter. 

When did it happen? 

Nellie. 
Today. 

Walter. 

I 1 hope you will be happy Nell — 

very very happy ! You have my blessing 

and my benediction ! I hope you will be very 

very happy ! 

(Exit Walter in a dazed manner. 

The sound of pouring rain is heard as 

he goes out.) 

Nellie. 



Walter Walter have you gone- 

O, Walter! I am so sorry! 



(Nellie zveeps.) 
CURTAIN. 



87 



ffourtb Hct 

Place : Walter's cabin in Green Moss Valley. 

Time : The following June. Marjorie is sitting. Walter 

is lolling in a careless attitude. 

Marjorie. 

I wish you wouldn't be so apathetic. 

You seem so listless and without a purpose. 

Walter. 

But what's the use, Marjorie? 
What difference does it make? 

Marjorie. 

Success or failure ! 

The world is fair to those that take it fairly ; 
But if you mope and sulk the time away, 
Of course it's gloomy to you. 

Walter. 

And do I mope and sulk the time away? 

Marjorie. 

You don't appear to care for anything, 
And that's what worries me. 

Walter. 

What is there, anyway, to care about? 

Marjorie. 

The world, ambition, power, action, life ! 
To take your place along with other men ; 
Attain achievements worthy of yourself! 
You could if you only would. Then why won't you? 

88 



Walter. 

I've made a little journey in the world, 
And candidly I am disgusted — tired — 
Or what you will. It isn't worth the while. 

Marjorie. 
Oh ! but it is ; 

If you would only see things as they are ! 
Though disillusionized, you should not quit. 
The higher truths of life are still worth while, — 
Yes, very much worth while. 

Walter. 

For instance, what ? 

To chase the scrawny phantom of mammon's greed, 

And bask in vapid smiles of the snobbish world ; 

To be lionized if rich and snubbed if poor, 

The fluctuations of success, each day, 

Like a ledger, marking up my social rating? 

Such base incentive does not stir my heart 

One beat the faster. And as for womankind, — 

I must not rail against your gentle sex — 

That would, indeed, be very impolite; 

But when the balance swings from love to gold, 

Weighed up in an apothecary's scale, — 

Or is the measure Troy? I forget which. 

Marjorie. 

Now, there you go, with your foolish cynicism ! 
Women are not entirely mercenary, 
Nor is the world so awfully cold ! 

(Enter Nellie. Walter rises.) 

Nellie. 

These are the dearest skirts for walking! Marjorie, is 
my hat on straight? We are going for a farewell 
jaunt to Inspiration Point. I am almost sorry we are 
leaving tomorrow. 



89 



Walter. 

Almost sorry? 

Nellie. 

I mean, we are sorry, Walter, awfully sorry. We 
have enjoyed our two weeks' visit to Green Moss Val- 
ley immensely. But how can you stay here all alone? 
Won't you die of home-sickness? 

Walter. 

I have felt even more abandoned in the big cities. 

Nellie. 

Come and go back with us tomorrow. It is dreadful 
to remain here by yourself. 

Walter. 

There is a music in the wilderness which you city-bred 
people do not understand. 

Nellie. 

Hector ! Come on. 

Hector. 

(Within.) I am coming, Nell. 

(Bnter Hector.) 
Walter, if you could ship this atmosphere to Baltimore, 
your everlasting fortune would be made. It is almost 
impossible to get tired here. We are going out to 
Inspiration Point. Won't you come along? 

Walter. 

No, thanks. As you have only been married three 
months, a wide panorama will afford all the company 
you two will need. 

Nellie. 
Marjorie, you come. 

90 






Marjorie. 

No, thank you, Nell — I won't be missed. 

{Exeunt Hector and Nellie.) 

Marjorie. 

Women are not as heartless as you think ; 
You really ought to know that they are not. 
If you would meet Anita Bolingbroke, 
On her return from Europe very soon, 
Your view of life would be entirely changed. 

Walter. 

Still harping on Anita ! I almost know 
Her now ; you always talk of her so much. 

Marjorie. 

No one compares with beautiful Anita — 

The peerless woman — matchless paragon! 

Go back with us. She will stir your blood ! 

Life won't seem flat and stale when you know her; 

But you will wish that you had ten fold strength. 

Walter. 

Marjorie, there are times when you infuse 

A burst of light into the very air, 

And all things seem entirely different; 

And then these other thoughts come surging back, 

Impelled with double force and vigor. 

Marjorie. 

You must not think forever of a loss, 
But throw the memory off and so forget. 

Walter. 

It is not how you prize a woman's love, 
And marshal all your manhood in her behalf, 

91 



Not fire of passion flaming in your soul, 
Nor yet the predilection of her heart, 
That guides decision to its final cast : 
But a life of pleasure, with its golden lure, — 
The giddy social whirl, — mundane success ! 
If not a money-maker, (which I am not), 
I could not count for much in Nellie's eyes, 
Nor in her cold and calculating mother's, 
Nor in the circle's which they represent : 
Quite welcome as a brother, or a son, 
But God forbid the thought of closer union ! 
O, well, at least it is all over now. 
My castles, built of sand, have crumbled flat ! 
And yet the desolation ! Welcome the end ; 
That is, indeed, all that I ask, the end ! 

Mar jo vie. 

What do you mean by saying the end ? 
You'd not rob nature of her final task ! 

Walter. 

Not rob, oh, no — but lend a helping hand; — 

And not by overt act, but by that wild 

Imprudence which drags destruction in its wake; 

To have done with heartache and the dismal blues, — 

World-weariness, — a raft of petty ills ; 

To let the whole complex machinery 

Dry up and blow away, swept back into 

The pure, sweet elements from which it came; 

A sorry pile of cracked and bleaching bones 

Alone left over, blinking in the sun. 

To tell the tale of the folly of being a man ! 

Marjorie. 

Now, there, indeed, you spoke unworthily, 
Your baser parts most falsely mounting up 
By usurpation over your true self, 

92 



Which is but momentarily unthroned. 

It's true that life is like a battle's strife; 

But would you shift the burden of the fight, — 

And you a Vernon of the knightly race? 

Walter. 

By heaven ! I hadn't thought of that ! 

Mar jo He. 

Your ancestors were men of a hardy grip. 
Through slimy moats, and up steep castled walls, 
Crushed in defeat or crowned with victory, 
They bravely fought their hard and sturdy way! 
In wars, tournaments, courts and ladies' bowers, 
With noble head erect and eye on fire, 
They met their compeers in that fighting age; 
Gave blow for blow and stroke for mighty stroke, 
Met right with right, and love with tender love ! 
And what was the gist of all their chivalry? 
The Will of Righteousness Unconquerable ! 
Yes, that was their ideal! No less to you, 
It is your precious Knightly Heritage! 
Will you discount the august dignity, 
And cast it down, quite obsolete, outworn; 
Too troublesome to take the irksome pains, 
In these easy days, that shirk the higher task; 
Or stand by the knightly standard of your blood? 

Walter. 

There is a strain in you that fires the heart, 
And puts to shame my lack of interest ! 
I bare the head and bow the bended knee ; 
For your unspoiled, true-hearted womanhood 
Shines through the dullness of my heavy moods, 
Like light, translucent, through a murky bone; 
And thus restores my firm resolve of mind! 

Marjorie. 

I'm glad, O, very glad, to hear it. 

93 



Walter. 

I promise, I shall mope and sulk no more ; 
But now will show what I can really do, 
As when the lion, roused from evil dreams, 
Yawns, stretches, shakes his tawny mane, 
And forth to battle, proudly strides ! 

Mar jo He. 

There's nothing in the world could please me more ! 
I am delighted ! 

{Enter Clyde Murdoch.) 

Murdoch. 

Hullo, Walter. I come to see — . Howdy, Miss. I 
wish you a howdy-do. 

Marjorie. 

How do you do, Mr. Murdock. Did you come to talk 
business with Mr. Vernon? 

Murdock. 

Yes. I come to tell him — 

(He stops, lost in admiration of 
Marjorie.) 

Marjorie. 

Then if you will excuse me I will go and join Nellie 
and Mr. Cloman. 

(Exit Marjorie.) 

Murdock. 

That's a hell of a fine gal. Is she the one that paid 
your morgige off? 

Walter. 

Yes. She paid it and saved me from foreclosure, then 
I gave her a mortgage back. 

94 






Murdock. 
Why don't you marry her? 

Walter. 

We are friends. 

Murdock. 

Hell ! That's funny. Say, who do you think I seen 
comin' this way? 

Walter. 
Hard to guess. 

Murdock. 

That old bum, Peter Hutchins ! 

Walter. 
Here ! 

Murdock. 

Yes. I come to tell you. He'll be hyar in a minute. 

Walter. 

Now, by George, I am glad of that ! 

Murdock. 

You gona tell him about Dink's evidence ? 

Walter. 
Unequivocally. 

Murdock. 
How's that? 

Walter. 
Yes. 

Murdock. 
Say, you lemme tell him. I found it out. Won't you ? 

Walter. 
Well, if you want to. 

(Enter Peter Hutchins with Indian 
guide.) 



95 



Peter. 

Well, Vernon, old man, how goes it ? 
Walter. 

You are a good ways from home. What brought you 
here ? 

{Peter.) 

Business, Walter, business. 

Walter. 

That is a foregone conclusion. But what business? 
To see me? 

Peter. 

To see my lands — to take possession. I have bought 
the title from William Jukes. 

Walter. 
What ! 

Peter. 

I have bought from William Jukes. The lands are 
mine. I came to take possession. 

Walter. 

Now, by all that's holy! — 

Murdoch. 

Hold on, Walter, let me tell this yere pirate — say, you 
know Patterson that runs the game? Well, I wus 
down at his joint three nights ago, and I seen a old 
miner, named Dinks, I ain't met sence twenty year 
back. He worked at Obadiah's Gulch in Californy in 
the early days, an' he knowed Mark Jukes, an' all 
them people. He says the woman, Wilhelmina, wus 
the wife of Harry McGraw — 

Peter. 
That's a lie ! 



96 



Murdoch. 

(Drazvs his gun and points at Peter. 

The Indian Guide runs out of the 

door.) 
Hell-fire ! You take that word back, or you'll never 
speak another ! Take it back ! 

Peter. 
Hold on a minute — hold on — 

Murdoch. 
Take it back, on your life ! 

Peter. 
Well, you've got the drop on me — 

Murdoch. 
Take it back! 

Peter. 

Well — it was an indiscretion. 

Murdoch. 

Indi — indigestion! I don't give a damn about your 

indigestion ! But you take that back, or by — 

Peter. 

Well, under the circumstances, I'll have to — under 
compulsion. 

Murdoch. 

(Lowering his gun.) You'd better. That wus a 
close call fur you. As I wus sayin', this McGraw left 
his wife an' a kid one year old an' went to Mexico. 

Walter. 
It wasn't even Mark Jukes' kid — 



97 



Peter. 
What kid are you talking about? 

Murdoch. 

Say, you keep your mouth shet an' I'll tell ye. Wen 
McGraw went to Mexico, seein' 'as how his wife an' 
kid wus starvin', she took up with Mark Jukes. 

Walter. 

Although she was the wife of Harry McGraw. 

Murdoch. 

Well, five year later, McGraw turns up one day, an' 
his wife gits skeered he's a gona kill her, so she 
quits Mark Jukes an' runs away to San Francisco. 
But Mark Jukes kep' the kid like as if it wus his own, 
an' ever'body called him Billy Jukes, but his real name 
is Billy McGraw— 

Peter. 
That's a 1— 

Murdoch. 

(Pointing gun.) Be keerful ! Thar's a big stake on 
the turn o' that 'ar word ! 

Walter. 

Soon after McGraw's wife ran away, Mark Jukes 
married Mary Scullin — 

Murdoch. 
Wich the same become his widow wen Mark died. 

Peter. 
She did not. Wilhelmina was his widow. 

Murdoch. 
That's whar you lie, damn your hide ! 



98 



Peter. 
This is barbarity! 

Walter. 

Alary Scullin was the only wife or widow Mark Jukes 
ever had, and as he died without other relatives, she 
became his sole heir. Through her I got my title, 
which is unassailable. 

Murdock. 

I've knowed Dinks fur twenty year, or more, an' we 
got his affidavy afore the Justice o' the Peace. 

Walter. 

So it comes to this — that you concocted a scheme to 
prove that Billy McGraw was the son of Mark Jukes 
and the heir to this property, and that Mary Scullin 
was only a bigamous wife, which is the same as no 
wife at all in law, relying on perjury to prove your 
case. I got the case continued last winter to gather 
evidence, and now we can prove your affidavits to 
be rank perjury. And I swear if you do not dismiss 
the case I will send you and Billy McGraw, and your 
other associates to States Prison where you belong. 

Peter. 

Why this is blackmail ! 

Walter. 

Blackmail ! You whelp ! Your soul is so deep dyed 
in iniquity, you don't know turpitude from justice ! You 
are the most depraved blackguard in seven states, you 
lying, fraud-making perjured villian ! 

Peter. 
Say, see here, do you mean that? 



Walter. 

Do you see those wild animals on the wall? I shot 
all of them with that Winchester hanging there. If 
you ever dare put foot on my land again, come 
armed, for by God ! I will shoot you at sight like a 
skunk ! Now, go, and never let me see you again. 

Peter. 

Say, Vernon, this isn't business — 

Walter. 
( Pointing to the door. ) Go ! 

Murdoch. 

Lemme show him how. 

{Grabs Peter, drags him over to the 
door and kicks him out, Peter call- 
ing "hold on, hold on.") 

Thar ! I guess that'll hold him fur a while. Ha ! Ha ! 

Ha ! Indigestion ! He thought he could fool me by 

saying he had indigestion ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! I wish to 

hell he hadn't took it back. 

Walter. 

That's the last you will ever see or hear of Peter 
Hutchins ! 

Murdock. 

Say, pard, I'm glad I come in yere. It's more fun 'n 
I've had in a month o' Sundays. Ha! Ha! Ha! Indi- 
gestion ! Say, I'm a goin' over to tell Kitty Maloney. 
She'll laugh her sides out. Ha! Ha! Ha! So long, 
pard, Ha! Ha! Ha! 

(Exit Murdock. Walter goes over to 

the work table.) 

Walter. 
So. She thinks I mope and sulk! Here are all these 



100 



samples Murdock has brought in, untouched. Well! 

Well! Mope and sulk! I will have to get to work 

as soon as they are gone, and do some assaying. Yes ; 

I will wake up and go to work. 

( Examines sample with a magnify- 
ing glass.) 

This looks pretty good. Free milling quartz. 

(A sound is heard in the distance of 
an approaching horse.) 

Listen ! I wonder ! Mollie ! As sure as you are born ! 
(He gazes at the door. The rays of 
the setting sun are streaming in. Enter 
Mollie Weymes.) 

Mollie. 

Why, Walter! Don't you know me? 
You're standing there like a block of stone ! 

Walter. 

(Shaking both her hands) Mollie! How very glad 
I am to see you ! 

Mollie. 

I just heard yesterday that you were back. 
When did you come? 

Walter. 
Two weeks ago. 

Mollie. 

And you have been in Baltimore all winter? 

Walter. 
Yes. 

Mollie. 

And now you have returned out here to stay? 

Walter. 
Yes. 

101 



Mollie. 

When are these other people going away? 

Walter. 
Tomorrow. 

Mollie. 

And then you will be all alone again ? 

Walter. 
Yes. 

Mollie. 
I didn't intend to come this way today. 

Walter. 
Well, then, why did you do so? 

Mollie. 

I went out for a little ride last night, 

And a wolf was howling at the clouded moon, 

A dismal note; and then another joined; 

And others still, until their savage discords 

Aroused the heavy echoes of the night ! 

And I rode on and on, through light and gloom, 

With Pontiac all trembling in his skin, 

Until I got to, — you know where the road 

Turns sharp up on the hill? 

Walter. 
Yes. 

Mollie. 
And I looked down and saw your cabin here. 

Walter. 
Well? 

Mollie. 

A light was burning in your bedroom window. 
It must have been near ten o'clock. 



102 



Walter. 

I didn't retire till after that. 

Mollie. 
I looked, and looked again, and couldn't see you. 

Walter. 
Of course you couldn't, in the night ? 

Mollie. 

And then I slowly rode back home again. 

Walter. 
And how about the wolves? 

Mollie. 

They followed, madly yelping, in the rear, 
The dusky, snarling beasts, half-starved and fierce, 
But yet not daring to come too close to us ; 
Their gleaming eye-balls shining in the dark! 

Walter. 
And Pontiac? 

Mollie, 

Was nearly scared to death, and then today — 

Walter. 
Today? 

Mollie. 

We cantered back. I saw your friends off there, 
And straightway turned to go back home again, — 
But before I realized the fact, I found 
That I was coming here instead. 

Walter. 

Why didn't you come at first? 

103 



Mollie. 

I didn't want to see them — but you. 

Walter. 
I'm awfully glad you came, at all events. 

Mollie. 

It seems as if it were but yesterday 
That we were here together, you and I, 
And all alone ; my buoyant heart aglow, 
Quite overflowing with its brimming joy, 
To cast itself most humbly at your feet ! 
And then you went away, and I have starved 
For your companionship without repose. 
I've missed you — missed you sadly every day. 

Walter. 

And I rejoice at last at my return. 

The rugged wilds contain a luring charm 

That soothes and braces up the drooping nerves, 

Imparting new and fresher views of life. 

Mollie. 

Are you not glad, then, to see me, too; 
When I am happier, far, than words can tell, 
To have you back again? 

Walter. 

Indeed, I am dear Mollie, beyond all measure! 

Mollie. 

Perhaps you lack the gayness of the town? 

Walter. 

Not a bit, — while you are here, at least. 

104 



Mollie. 

It may be somewhat slow in many ways, 

But still we have our hunts and beasts of prey ; 

And then the din and tumult of the storms 

That break the back bone of monotony. 

Don't you adore the riot in the air? 

The thunder's sudden crash and noisy roar, 

The lightning's brilliant flash, the shrieking wind, 

The sheets of pouring rain in high deluge, — 

And then the gleam, as if in benediction, 

Of dazzling sunlight shining afterwards? 

Oh ! how I love the heart of God's dear world ! 

Walter. 

I do, indeed I do. And, Oh, must not 
The human soul have its wild passion's storms, 
To make the coursing pulses throb and beat, 
Awakened with the joyous thrill of life, — 
And then the quiet afterglow of peace? 

Mollie. 

You see the colored rays of the setting sun ; 
They bear a golden light of mystery, 
Reminding of the time before you left. 
Do you recall the glamour of those days, 
So fresh in mind, yet seeming long ago ? 

Walter. 

I never shall be able to forget! 
The soft enchantment of the dreamy spell 
That you were wont to cast, returns anew, 
Enkindling old-time smouldering flames to fire, — 
Though smothered over, not entirely out ! 

Mollie. 

(Sighing)— Oh, Walter! 

I am so glad that you are back with me! 

105 



Walter. 

It is the same bewitching hour of old! 

Its deep infatuation's magic force 

Wipes out the intervening slough of gloom, 

And quite restores the old-time joy of living! 

Mollie. 

I am so glad the others will soon depart, 

And leave us undisputed chums once more ! 

God be praised ! We two alone again ! 

But speedy minutes are rolling swiftly by, 

So I must now be up and off. 

Dear heart ! Until we meet again, — good-bye ! 

(She impulsively throws her arms 
around him and kisses him. Goes to 
the door and zvaves her hand. Exit 
Mollie. The clatter of her horse's 
hoofs is heard receding in the dis- 
tance. Walter sinks half dazed upon a 
stool in the center of the stage and 
becomes lost in a dream of the imagi- 
nation. The rays of the setting sun 
are shining in. Now the light grows 
darker and darker until very dim, the 
sun's rays being removed. Low 
music begins to vibrate, grows louder 
and louder, throbs and palpitates. 
Deep notes of the base violin, tooting 
of the oboe and clarionctte, mingled 
with strains of the violin. Time 
is syncopated. The stage lan- 
tern throws a downward stream of 
sparks and tongues of flame which 
turn into a shower of roses. Then 
the stage is illuminated with gray 
light.) 

106 



The: Five: Senses. 
Represented by five young girls 
artistically clad, partially concealing 
and partially revealing the beauties 
of the hgure, now enter from differ- 
ent parts of the stage, collect and 
dance around him, first with slozv 
swaying movements, afterwards 
faster and wilder in a dance repre- 
senting the 

Riot of the: Senses. 
As the dance proceeds, the spot light 
is focussed, and colors alternately 
change to orange, crimson, white, yel- 
low, gray, etc. At the end of the 
dance they form a semi-circle back of 
him, and all recite in chorus, as fol- 
lozvs : 
"The Five Senses/' 
Behold! the Five Senses — each one a joint queen! 
Our rule is a good one — the best ever seen; 
For life universal, evolved from mere spawn, 
Through steps of slow progress by us has been 

drawn. 
Our pains, all unaided, a work most sublime, 
By long perseverance, raised man from the slime! 
All laws that are human must change in the end, 
But we, the staunch framework, withstand every bend. 
(Bach one now advances in turn and 
recites a little speech as follows, with 
changing lights. 
"Sight." 

(White spot light.) 
By Sight, all brightness and beauty you see — 
The day's great glory, unfolded by me ! 
"Sound." 
(Violet spot light. She strikes a 
lute in her hand.) 



107 



I make the concord of music resound! 
How gay the bouyant vibration of Sound ! 
"Smell" 

{Green spot light. She holds a bou- 
quet to his nose.) 

Inhale the perfume and fragrance of spring — 

A joy Smell only is able to bring! 
"Taste." 
(Orange spot light. She kneels, 
puts her arm around his neck, and 
kisses him.) 

By Taste, two sweethearts in giving a kiss, 

Attain the purest enjoyment of bliss ! 

"Touch." 
(Crimson spot light. She kneels, 
with her arm around him.) 

The Touch of lovers' caresses excites 

The most exquisite of human delights ! 

(They now lasso him with garlands 
of flowers, walking around him from 
left to right.) 

"The Five Senses." 
And now we are planning to start you anew, 
Enthralled by clear Mollie, whose love is your due. 
O ! yield to a sweetness, so rare and so gay, 
Which meets nature's mandates that all must obey 
To rise in life's conflict, to win great renown, 
To rule as a master, and wear glory's crown ! 
Assert, O ! dear Walter, the rights that are yours, 
And seize the enchantment a man so adores ! 

(They nozv reverse, going around in 

the opposite direction.) 
Yes, seize the enchantment a man so adores ! 
Assert, O ! dear Walter, the rights that are yours, — 
To rule as a master, to wear glory's crown, 
To rise in life's conflict, and win great renown ! 
O! meet nature's mandates, that all must obey, 



108 



And yield to a sweetness, so rare and so gay! 
For now we are planning to start you anew, 
Enthralled by dear Mollie, whose love is your due. 

(They pull on their garlands and are 
slowly dragging him over to the 
door.) 

"Sight." 
Come with us, Walter! 

"Sound." 
Yes, Walter, come. 

"Smell.' 
Come, for we love you, — 

"Touch." 
And want you to live ! 

"Taste." 
So come with us, come with us, come ! 

Walter. 

( Ecstatically ) —Mollie ! Mollie ! 

(Enter "Loyai/ty/' a beautiful wom- 
an, clad in simple zvhite, from the 
right side of the stage. Takes his 
right hand in her left, and holds up 
the old family sword in her right 
hand. The sword may be studded 
with electric lights so as to shine. 
White spot light is thrown on "Loy- 
alty;" the rest of the stage being in 
crimson.) 

"Loyalty." 

Behold ! O, dear Walter, the old family sword, — 

A sign of bright honor to men of their word ! 

You swore, you remember, to stand by your trust, 

A knight, always loyal, let come what come must ! 

Mere slaves are the Senses, — as such have their place ; 

Enthroned as High Rulers, would ruin the race ! 



109 



So cling to the Ideals of pure, noble life, 
Impelled by the yearning that longs for a wife : 
The fate of Society and hope of mankind 
Demand, beyond question, this truth, you will find! 
Then spurn the mad pleadings of ignoble folly, 
And give a denial to picturesque Mollie ! 

Walter. 

(As if rousing from a dream) — Away with these en- 
chantments ! 

(The "Five Senses" run away, with 
a zvail, and "Loyalty" disappears. 
Stage is illuminated. 
My God ! What a strange predicament is this — drift- 
ing — drifting — in the whirling stream of passion, to 
what distant, unknown shore ? In a sense I love her — 
tenderly — and the tie would grow deeper — deeper — 
but could only lead to tragedy and disgrace ! Poor, 
dear, impulsive girl — a stray in the wilderness, all 
alone ! I shall write you a long, long letter tonight, 
dear Mollie — your friend forever — with deep distress 
of mind — but we must part. It is the only way. But 
this brings me to a better understanding of myself, for 
my true faith belongs to Marjorie, the incomparable, 
majestic woman ! And now I know beyond a doubt 
that I love her, — Marjorie! 

(Enter Hector Clonian, Nellie and 
Marjorie, talking and laughing. 
They are carrying huge armfuls of 
wildf lowers. Marjorie is crowned 
with a wreath of flowers, which she 
has woven. They are all gay and 
frolicking.) 

Nellie. 

My Black-eyed-Susans are the nicest, grown in the 
image of the sun itself. 



110 



Hector. 

My daisies are finer, as rich as gold and as bright as 
silver. 

Marjorie. 

Nay, my wild roses are the best of all, blushing at the 
sun's kisses, and yielding sweet perfumes to the ca- 
resses of the gentle wind. 

Nellie. 

Blushes, kisses and caresses, oh ! fie ! 

Walter. 

Are you Queen of the May, with your crown of 
flowers ? 

Marjorie. 

This is not May, but June, and I am no queen ; but the 
flowers are a tribute to the beauty of your meadows. 

Walter. 

Though not Queen of the May, you still are a queen, 
and the flowers of nature are well placed on the flower 
of womanhood. 

Nellie. 

O, hear ! The wind blows and blows, and changes ! 

Marjorie. 

These are to decorate your cabin and remind you of 
us when we are gone. 

(They place the flowers around in 

jars, pitchers, etc.) 

Hector. 
There are colors enough to paint a rainbow with. 

Nellie. 
The rainbow comes with storms. 



Ill 



Marjorie. 
But it is a sign of peace. 

Walter. 
And so are these. 

Nellie. 
Why don't you thank us? 

Walter. 
I do — all of you. 

Nellie. 
Which one most? 

(A pause. Nellie takes the wreath 
from Marjorie' s head.) 
Marjorie picked these and wove them into shape. 

Walter. 
They are very beautiful. 

Nellie. 
And sweet. Smell. 

(Holds the zvreath to Walter s nose.) 
Like everything that Marjorie does, it is well done. 
Don't you agree with me? 

Walter. 
Decidedly. 

Nellie. 

See if Marjorie's handiwork becomes you. 

(Puts the zvreath on Walter s head.) 
Strange, how well it does. Hector, let us go and 
pack. 

Hector. 

I was just thinking of that myself. 

(Exit Hector, Nellie following. She 
stops at the door, looks back long- 
ingly a fezv moments. Then exit 
Nellie.) 



112 



Marjorie. 

You look like some great victor in his pride, 
Wearing triumphant laurels of success. 

Walter. 

Your dainty fingers wove their flowery strands. 

(Removes the wreath from his head.) 
But what I win will you consent to wear ? 

(Puts the wreath on Marjorie.) 
As reigning queen, let me enthrone and crown you ! 
May I swear out my heart and soul allegiance? 

Marjorie. 

But would my rule, you think, be just and gentle? 

Walter. 
Both. 

Marjorie. 

This evening is the last we spend together. 

Walter. 
I doubt it. 

Marjorie. 

We leave tomorrow and you stay here. 

Walter. 

My plans are changed. I'm going to go with you. 

Marjorie. 

(Elated)— To go with us ? Oh, Walter ! 

Walter. 

Away far from the rugged wilderness, 
And back to Baltimore. 

Marjorie. 
Oh! Joy! 

113 



Walter. 

To mope and sulk no more ; 

But, taking hold of life anew, to pit 

My manhood's force against the open world! 

Mar] one. 
Oh! 

Walter. 

Marjorie, a man alone is incomplete ; 

Kind nature knows, and yearns to fill the gap; 

And woman is the making of a man. 

Marjorie. 

The best of men requires the best of women — 
In the making ! 

Walter. 

The best of women insures the best of men — 
In the taking ! 

Marjorie. 
Anita, by far, outshines the rest of her sex. 

Walter. 
The virtues that please in one, in others would vex! 

Marjorie. 
Anita is tall and slim. 

Walter. 
Undoubtedly, so are you. 

Marjorie. 
The glint of her eyes is brown. 
Walter. 
The glory of yours is blue. 

114 



Mar] one. 
Her teeth are as white as snow. 

Walter. 

Like pearls, glisten yours, in row. 

Marjorie. 

Her cheeks, of a damask hue. 

T Valtcr. 
The bloom of a peach suits you. 

Marjorie. 

Her locks in black strands, unfold. 

Walter. 
And yours, in spun coils of gold. 
Marjorie. 
Her smile is her sweetest part. 

Walter. 
And yours puts to shame all art. 
Marjorie. 
Love's joy consecrates her heart. 

Walter. 
In you, it ennobles each part. 

Marjorie. 
You take me not seriously. I meant you well. 

Walter. 
I take you, — most seriously ! Time will tell ! 

115 



Marjorie. 

Then, since you won't listen, and turn all into fun, 
I ought to be going, — it is time now to run ! 

(Marjorie going, Walter following.) 

Walter. 

The fun's just beginning, and you can't run away, 
For I'll follow after, — forever and a day ! 

(Walter takes Marjorie by the hand 

and holds her.) 

Walter. 
But do you really want to run away? 

Marjorie. 
(Coyly.) — Well, not if you want me to stay with you. 

Walter. 

I do want you to stay with me — always ; 
For no one else can satisfy my heart ! 
But you alone can make existence perfect ; 
Achieve the consummation of all desires ; — 
Surmount the heights and bridge the depths of life ! 
I want your love in fair exchange for mine ! 
Can you love me, Marjorie? — Will you love me? 
Do you love me? 

Marjorie. 

I have loved you all my life ! 

(Walter clasps her eagerly in his 
arms, and they kiss.) 

CURTAIN. 



116 



A KNIGHTLY HERITAGE 



Hppen&ti 

A PLAY is essentially a work of art, and its first purpose 
is to entertain. Nevertheless, running through the 
stream of soul-pictures, mental imagery and dramatic 
movements, there should be a sense of ethical structure. 
While it would tire the general reader to go to any great 
extent into the underlying philosophy of the play, a short 
analysis of the characters and of the final climax is apt to 
be interesting, serving as a key to the rest of the work. 

The PROLOGUE shows a world movement from a fight- 
ing, or chivalrous age, into the mercenary age. Gov. Vernon 
belongs to the old school and perceiving this movement tries 
to readjust the family which he represents to the new con- 
ditions. In doing so he shows the venturesome spirit of the 
soldier, and at the same time, a lack of business precaution, 
by overreaching himself and going into debt more heavily 
than his means justify. Walter pays for this lack of busi- 
ness training through years of deprivation, and just escapes 
being ruined. It may be seen all through that Walter be- 
longs to the old age in tastes and standards, and not to 
the new. 

GREEN MOSS VALLEY stands for the Idyllic World, or 
that of Nature; and Baltimore for the Institutional World, 
or that of Society. 

The play deals with the conflict between the Material 
and the Ideal; between the Impulsive and the Rational; be- 
tween the Natural and the Institutional; between the Sensual 
and the Spiritual; between the Dishonest and the Honest; 
between Egoism and Altruism. These many qualities are 
found in differing degrees in the various characters. 

The IDEALIST is apt to be an altruist, long-sighted, and 
Inspired by a sense of merit and service. The MATERIALIST, 
on the other hand, is more egoistic, with a narrower view, 
and is imbued with a spirit of competition for personal ad- 
vancement, rather than with the more altruistic sense of 
merit and service. The materialist is more harsh, self- 
assertive and pretentious than the idealist. 



117 



WALTER VERNON is an idealist, an altruist, a rational- 
ist, and at the same time is impelled by strong impulses of 
nature, hence he responds both to the idyllic and the insti- 
tutional worlds. His ends are far reaching' and high. They 
not only strive for objective purposes, but include intense 
subjective states of mind and high flights of fancy. He is 
not competitive, or exactly self-assertive, but rather expects 
to attain ends through merit and service. He is knightly 
and chivalrous. He is of a poetic temperament, possessing 
brilliant imagination and the keenest emotional sensibili- 
ties, ranging from the lower passions up through the gamut 
to the highest spiritual aspirations. Though keenly sus- 
ceptible to the impulses of nature, he nevertheless is con- 
trolled by rational will as the dominating factor. 

The CLIMAX of the play is in the fourth act. It shows a 
conflict between the attractions of the natural world ap- 
pealing to the natural man (in Walter Vernon) through the 
senses, and the higher beauties and purposes of the institu- 
tional world appealing to the spiritual man. The "five 
senses" and "loyalty," abstract qualities personified by beau- 
tiful young women, really exist only in Walter's mind, rep- 
resenting different levels of his own personality, or lower 
and higher forms of evolutionary development; — producing 
a conflict between the sensual and the spiritual; — between 
the heredity of untold ages gone, and the dawning reign of 
reason; between the impulsive and the rational. Starting 
probably one hundred million years ago and evolving by 
slow degrees from the minutest germ, all life in its earlier 
stages was controlled by the senses and instincts of nature. 
These blind natural forces still persist with undiminished 
vigor normally and properly in the lower realms of our 
personality, and reason does not seek to destroy them, but 
only to guide them in accordance with the highest ends. 

Walter comes of a family who for generations have ren- 
dered altruistic services to the institutional world of society, 
and this heredity is strong in him. He, an idealist, has, 
however, passed through a period of disillusionment in 
which he has rubbed up against the world of human reali- 
ties, and has been brought face to face with the selfishness, 
sordidness, shallowness and materialism of mankind. His 
own high ideas of life have failed of fruition, and he has 
practically been slighted, scorned and rejected by the ma- 
terial world of society, reaching a crisis at the end of the 
third act. It is not merely a matter of disappointed love, 
but he is temperamentally at outs with his whole environ- 
ment, and feels the lack of harmony and his exclusion from 
modern life. With a lofty pride of family and a hereditary 
sense of caste, of public spirit, of distinction and of glory, 



118 



he finds himself judged and rated by a money standard only. 
His higher traits of personal character fail of being appre- 
ciated altogether. While still smarting from these wounds, 
he returns to the natural world in Green Moss Valley and 
finds a solace in its wild attractions which, to say the least, 
are thoroughly genuine and without guile. Mollie Weymes, 
who is exquisite in many ways, and non-institutional rather 
than immoral, shows every inclination to retain him in the 
wilderness, dragging him away from the institutional world 
altogether. In the reaction from his disillusionment in the 
world of human realities, he is especially susceptible to the 
allurements of this situation centered around Mollie. But 
on the other hand there has been going on within him for 
some time a new inward growth (which he himself has 
caught but occasional glimpses of) under the influence of 
Marjorie Knollys. This is a spiritual development which in 
perfection would fulfill all the highest demands of his man- 
hood and of life. Marjorie's influence so far has not taken 
full possession of him, but has rather touched the spiritual 
side of his nature only. Mollie excites the natural man, that 
Is the primitive passions, and in so doing completes his 
emancipation from the charms of Nellie Bostwick, with 
whom he was recently in love. But Walter finds two obsta- 
cles in the way of the attraction that Mollie exerts. One is 
the recrudescence of his early training, with its adhesion to 
social ethics. The other is the entire incompatibility of 
Mollie's influence with that of Marjorie. He cannot follow 
both — one must be surrendered. The realization of this fact 
is unfolded in his own mind in that sharp subjective conflict 
which produces, as it were, the imagery of the "five senses" 
and "loyalty." He chooses the higher course, and in so 
doing all the excitement of his primitive passions, aroused 
by Mollie, swings over in accord with his higher spiritual 
needs, making Marjorie the sole recipient of the ardent 
glow of his whole nature. Through Marjorie he is thus 
weaned from the wilderness, cured of the misanthropy fol- 
lowing upon disappointed love and the general disillusion- 
ment of experience, and is restored to the full efficiency of 
life among his fellow creatures in harmony with the insti- 
tutional and spiritual worlds, giving full scope to all of his 
powers of soul, mind and body. The old family of the old 
regime, which he represents, is thus readjusted to the new 
age. Marjorie, who has always loved Walter, thinking 
Walter was in love with her, nearly betrayed her love for 
him in the second act unasked. Being much abashed at this 
narrow escape, she thereafter carefully avoided any display 
of warmth for him more than a friendly interest in his wel- 
fare, restraining herself to the point of coolness in other 



119 



respects. For this reason her power over Walter Is mostly 
a spiritual one up to the climax in the fourth act, which is 
forced through the impulsive impetuosity of Mollie Weymea. 
But now that Walter has asked for Marjorie's love and re- 
ceived her confession, the warmth and richness of her truly 
feminine nature will manifest its ardor, insuring their 
mutual happiness. 

MOLLIE WEYMES is a child of nature. She is guided 
by impulse almost exclusively. She is warm, loyal, meaning 
right, spontaneously exhuberant in desiring the beautiful, 
in joy, happiness, freedom, expansiveness. Her natural 
purpose in life is love, wifehood, motherhood. She is ex- 
tremely poetical, is an idealist, ignores material considera- 
tions, follows her soul; but is swayed by impulse alone, 
without due rational control. Being married through an 
act of impulse and without reason (for mere obedience to a 
parent is no valid ground for entering into matrimony with- 
out love), she learns to hate her husband and is too natural, 
too moral, to live with him whom she hates. She rejects 
him and flies to the idyllic world in the heart of nature. 
Thus severed from society through her own impulsive 
nature, it is apparent that Mollie would be willing to throw 
over the institutional world altogether in favor of the 
natural world to be happy with Walter. To sum up her 
character, she opposes impulse to reason, the natural world 
to the institutional, the wilderness to human society. 

MARJORIE KNOLLYS, in contrast to Mollie, is the or- 
derly woman, governed by rational judgment, accepting the 
institutional world and human society. She is an exalted 
idealist, and an altruist, reaching the highest attainment of 
spiritual beauty. She is the true woman, revealing the 
ethical world in a moral realm above the vicissitudes of 
life, whatever they may be, and yet through adversity 
trained to meet the material world with practical purposes. 
She is the chief thread in the mediatorial movement, and 
through her Walter finds the normal unity of life, meeting 
all the requirements of both the ideal and the material, not 
disregarding either realm, but establishing an even balance, 
or equipoise, between the two, insuring the triumph of life. 

NELLIE BOSTWICK is a partial idealist, but more of 
a worldling, and is rather shallow than otherwise. She re- 
sponds temperamentally to the ideal, but is not willing to 
sacrifice any mundane interests for it. She is very tender- 
hearted, and while not at all a coquette, she lets Walter 
be led into hoping he will win her because she has not the 
heart to crush his hopes, her tender-heartedness causing 
more suffering than it saves. Man to man, she would have 
preferred Walter to Hector Cloman, but married the latter 
on account of financial advantages. 



120 



MRS. BOSTWICK is a thorough materialist and egoist. 
She is self-assertive, harsh in judgment, pretentious and 
competitive on all occasions, and only understands that 
selfishness of will which takes and holds all that it can 
grasp. 

HECTOR CLOMAN, in contrast to Walter Vernon, is not 
an idealist. He is a materialist, but the highest of that type. 
He belongs entirely to the objective world, and has no sub- 
jective states. He is perfectly true, clean, straight, honest, 
forceful. Business is his chief aim, his absorbing purpose; 
but his methods are worthy. He has no great passion, no 
poetry, no very tender sentiment, no romance. He is ex- 
clusively rational and has no impulse. He is filled with 
truth but not knightliness. 

WILIE STOKES is a shallow-brained fop; his chief end 
in life being an exaggerated sense of his own importance. 
His aims are all follies based on self-conceit, vanity and ego- 
tism. His ends are comically nugatory in chasing the 
phantom of self-importance that has no real existence. 

PETER HUTCHINS has no ideals of any sort. "Money" 
expresses all the value of life to him, and its entire scope of 
ethics. "Get rich" is his only conceivable stimulus to 
action. 

CLYDE MURDOCK is of a low order of mental culture, 
but he is loyal and honest. He has some common vices, but is 
"square." Peter Hutchins, on the other hand, although 
shrewd and mentally strong, is a fraud and a trickster. 
In the last act, therefore, we see Murdock, loyal to Walter, 
kicking Peter, who is his superior in every way except the 
moral, out of the door. 



121 



AUG 10 1908 



